THE ILLITERATE SCRIBE

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noreply@blogger.com (RukmaniRam) — Sat, 02 Jul 2011 02:55:00 +0000

Hello, little part of the interwebs,

For various personal reasons, I am walking away from this blog, as of right away. Those of you who know me, will (or can) know where to find me. Those of you who don't, trawl the webs long enough and we will run into each other again. (Bonus points if you recognize me from my jokes alone.)

Cheers.

Men, Shun not!

noreply@blogger.com (RukmaniRam) — Tue, 07 Dec 2010 07:46:00 +0000

Matrimony: money your mom gives you

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Pumpkin spies latte: James Bond's standing Starbucks order

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There is a place in Madras called Washermanpet. I wonder if it is full of donkeys and mules.

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"All is Fair in love" has inspired all the fairness cream ads.

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Parents. But Ma owns.

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Is there a feminist online petiton somewhere protesting the word "intelligent"?

If you're a man who enjoys word play, does that make you pungent?

Is a tangent a man who forgot to pack his sunscreen?

How hard is it to detergents?

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What do you call a girl with too many men in her life? Men tally gifted.

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"I can't drink generic coffee. Ugh. It is beneath me!"
"So is the floor. Are you not going to walk on it?"

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PS: The title could be an instruction to some feminists.

Sayfood Beeblebrox

noreply@blogger.com (RukmaniRam) — Wed, 03 Nov 2010 06:05:00 +0000

Food is sustenance.

Those were my favorite words as a teenager. I like to think of my pre-grad school self as someone who'd eat anything (within the tenets of my vegetarian upbringing, of course). My mum might disagree, but she doesn't talk to you here and so we'll go with what I think. You see, belief in that sentence allowed me two things:

1.Not complain about hostel food.
Ok, maybe not totally not complain. But I atleast never tossed food in the trash, or missed a meal because the food didn' taste good. (I missed them because I slept through meal times, but that's neither here nor there)

2. It allowed me to forgive my own incompetence in the kitchen.
You see, I have this... thing. It's a major short-coming. When you expect me to do anything, anything at all, "because I'm a woman", I immediately despise it. Loathe it. And so, I loathed cooking. I didn't even know how to properly brew coffee. Amma did most of the cooking, and always all of it in the morning. I am anything but a morning person, so I never did help her out. So, in my final year of college, when I spent 4 months in Trivandrum renting a house with a much older roommate (who was gone 4 days out of the week), I ended up having to ask for the landlord's help to light the kerosene stove that was our makeshift kitchen. Now the landlord was a authentic mallu grandpa who offered me chandan every morning as I left for work, and quite obviously judged me for waking up late and not having delicious smells wafting out of my room. But it never bothered me. I did not starve. I did not acquire a nutritional deficiency. Which was the point of food anyway. I still label it a success.

But my relationship with food has changed since I started renting a house with a full kitchen. It may also have something to do with the fact that eating out in this country is quite expensive. Or the fact that I realized I could actually be good at making it. Or, simply, no one any longer expected it of me. (I mean, seriously, single grad students are expected to survive on ramen. Or end up eating things like "strawberry curd rice and peas".) As someone once put it, divorced from expectations, a lot of things become enjoyable. I can not pinpoint the exact time I grew- for want of a better word - fond of food. But somewhere between theratti paal made out of milk that would have curdled the next day and paruppu usili and more kozhambu made on a never-ending summer's day, my philosophy changed from "food is sustenance" to "love is warm garlic rasam and vadam"; that food is comforting.

Apart from eight weeks of pavement pounding and apartment hunting, followed by the finding of and moving into a new apartment, food has been the reason I have stayed away from this blog. A lot of my time lately has been spent in the kitchen, followed by lounging in my newly acquired deck, enjoying the breeze and the joy that I just conjured. I write about food now- most often only as emails to friends and amma. But I think I want to write more. And if you want to read about food, head over ~~here~~. I can not post recipes or tell you how to make stuff. I can not take pretty pictures. I can only talk about food. You have been warned.

P.S: Yes, I know. This looks like ~~one long blog pimp. But it isn't. I merely wanted to tell you why I was gone, and where I was gone. But I can not post~~ a "this is why I was not here". ~~Not again atleast.~~

Update: This has been in my drafts folder for long. There does exist a runt of a food blog that this post did link to. But I have since realized I don't like to be called a "foodie" and this blog will land me smack dab in the middle of "wannabe foodie"ville. But please, do talk to me about food.

Upperdate: I have since made theratti paal again, this time with milk that was not going bad and hours of elbow grease. It has been my finest accomplishment in the kitchen till date. Apart from the two pies I baked from scratch that have actualized true flaky perfection. Those who will meet me around Thanksgiving/ Christmas, expect to get fat.

Summer Salt. Autumnatic.

noreply@blogger.com (RukmaniRam) — Tue, 20 Jul 2010 05:10:00 +0000

Erosion: The charged entity a person becomes after falling in love.

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Change is in the air. And the homeless guy is waiting for it to fall to the ground.

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A: "Lion Dates Syrup"
B: "Really? Wow! Talk about dating without borders!"

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Avocadoes. Other fruit don't.

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Mangoes. Other fruit stay still.

But, more importantly: Mangoes. But women leave.

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A: "Ouch! Your honesty is caustic"
B: "Would you prefer lye?"

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Mandate: When two guys get together for some bromance.

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The guy with the terrible nails thanked me after he became man I cured.

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Be the change you want to see? I can't turn into nickel or copper. Or whatever alloy those things are.

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Bad opinions: A particularly unsavory pie made with onions.

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A: "We took our relationship to the next level"
B: "You exchanged keys?"
A: "Bigger than that. We exchanged Google passwords"

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Forecast: When your fractured arm is in a cast.
When said cast is on female? Broadcast.

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Everytime I reach a voicemail box and I'm told "Leave a message after the tone, BEEP" I wonder what swear word was censored.

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PS: Title is part of a terrible terrible PJ. I will spare you. Because I love you all.

PPS: Ooh. Is that my humerus?

Stale Breadth of Fresh Air

noreply@blogger.com (RukmaniRam) — Sat, 10 Jul 2010 18:28:00 +0000

"These are words. Mere words. Mirthless. Joyless. Lifeless. Unadorned. They paint no picture. They are simply black on brown. Letters and spaces and punctuations strung together. Merely making sense. Like the last dance of an amateur show that nobody watches.They are just there."

That would have been the beginning to how I would have ended this blog. Said my last few words, before I killed it. Except, a few good men talked me out of it. And now here I am, and all I have to offer is stale bread from my drafts folder, barely edited.

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I love food. "who doesn't?" you ask, scornfully? Confession: I used to be the kind who said "food is sustenance. Taste, texture, flavor, all stop with the tongue; after the swallow, down the throat, they are all the same" I was picky about food as a child, just like every other child; but as I grew older, I picked up a sort of zen when it came to food. I ate my hostel food, and felt fine. No complaints. I could eat the same thing everyday and not be bothered. The other zen came to me one evening sometime about 2.5 years ago, when I had a particularly strong craving for potato bajji and wished someone was there to make it for me. And then I got it. Bulbs lit up and bells chimed and I felt like a random self help guru cum motivational speaker on TV when I thought "I deserve to be treated to awesome things. But If I don't treat myself to it, how is it fair to expect others to?" And that philosophy has stuck with me since that drizzly evening of tenderly crisp potatoey goodness laced with tangy tamarind chutney and downed with sips of masala chai.

And look at me today. I am an apron wearing, rolling pin wielding, food blog reading, brownie baking, vadai sutting domestic goddess in training. Ok, so I made up the domestic goddess in training bit. I am a slob. By my own admission and by the roomie's attestation. But I am honest about the apron. It is flowery and all. (I also own another stoic monochrome rugged apron that my mum made for me when I was in 9th standard and had to have one for "Domestic Science". It is made of special flame retardant oil proof fabric and all that) Now, I have gotten a feel for things around the kitchen. I can conjure up magic on a stove and serve it on a platter, (ever)silver spoon and all. To me, home is where the hearth is. I admit, there are still a few things that I can not quite manage with aplomb. Making horizontal cuts on a potato without almost lopping my finger nails off, for instance. Or cleaning up while cooking. Or resisting the urge to lick the cake batter clean off the bowls. And then, there are things that totally intimidate me.Like baking bread. And pie crusts. And overflowing sinks. I baked a pie once. From scratch. I was scarred for life. I don't want to talk about it. Recently though, I decided to tackle bread. I had danced around the thought for many weeks. Subtly probing, furtively peeking at recipes that seductively peered at me from my favorite websites. 3 months of this dance, and I went ahead and bought my first ever packet of yeast, brought it home and promptly hid it away in a dark corner of the topmost cabinet- which I should add, I can not reach wihtout a step stool. The yeast hid there for 2 weeks, abandoned, but never complaining, until one sunday afternoon, confined to home by a bum ankle and encouraged by amma and ammu kutty, I decided to brave it. I mean, how hard could it be? It was bread. Humble and warm and comforting. It wasn't any pretentious pie crust, which can be... flaky. There was no reason to be scared.

The process seemed simple enough: Knead. Rest. Rise. Knead. Rest. Rise. Shape. Bake. I started on the process. Made notes. Scratched out notes. Scribbled in lines about the progress. Doodled. Until the page on my notebook looked somewhat like this: "... Knead the dough. Squish. Roll. Fold. Build biceps. Eliminate upper arm flab. Cover with towel and let the dough rise. Cover the bowl. Not the dough. But don't expect it to be Jesus- if the yeast is dead, so is the dough. Walk away. Smell your fingers. Revel in the sweet yeastyness. Don't keep peeking. Leave it alone for an hour and a half. Watch a movie. Legally Blonde. Or half a vijai padam. During the Vijai padam interval (or when Reese Witherspoon squeals at her valedictorian speech), go check on your dough. The one in the bowl, not your bank.It should be about twice the size. Or atleast 1.5 times. Take it out and punch it down. Gently. Smush around using your knuckles. No knead for too much pressure ... "

The end result wasn't bad. It wasn't the best, but it made the awesomest grilled cheese. It also helped that the cheese was an expensive cheddar that I could have sold and paid my phone bills with. But the bread was good too. Armed with this knowledge - that Bread is not mean - I went at it again, a couple of weeks later. A few more changes were made to the recipe, and a couple of comments, reassurances, and vijai padams later, I pulled out a wonderful loaf from the oven; warm, hearty, crusty, crumby. So there, now I can bake bread. Maybe I'll give pies a chance again. With a graham cracker crust, though.

PS: Dear blog readers (bleaders?), this choppy unedited piece is here because of the people who pinged me asking why I'd stopped writing again. Apart from reasons stated, it's also because I'm currently searching for my funny bone. If you see it, ping me. Ok?

Two Painters - II

noreply@blogger.com (RukmaniRam) — Thu, 20 May 2010 05:34:00 +0000

Continued from here

*****

Still staring at her glass, Bhavani wondered, in retrospect, if she had been merely trying to prove her father wrong by studying the science of love; to refute her father’s theories that love was divine, all conquering and made the world go around. Science portrayed attraction as a primal instinct; driven by the need to procreate, to produce superior offspring. Sociologists she worked with published papers about how the evolution of human societies introduced newer desirable qualities in a potential mate: financial ability, moral integrity, social compatibility. Those arguments seemed to make sense to her. It allowed her to not believe in – to scoff at, even – the pair bonding structure that society imposed. Pair bonding complicated things. It required you to be able to enjoy the smoldering coals that remained after the sparks danced and the merrily crackling fire slowly died away; made you look beyond the obvious and immediately desirable qualities; to look past this moment and think about the future, seeking out shared interests and complementing personalities, in hopes that they will take over. In Bhavani's books, attraction, infatuation, emotional bonding were all spelled out in hormones, electrical signals, synapses and brain chemistry, and she found solace in it. She had wondered if people enacted the notion of romantic love simply so we could feel superior to other species; because humans bonded for love, and not to simply ensuring that our genes are carried on. Her clinical treatment of love allowed her to form relationships freely, and when they ended, leave them just as freely; feeling content and happy, without regrets or tears. This deeply troubled her father. But he held himself back- never accusing, never judging.

In an effort to allay his fears, and to defend her stance, Bhavani introduced him to her anthropologist boyfriend, with whom she had a long standing, comfortably open relationship. She was eagerly curious about the conversation she would witness. Her father’s lofty romanticism matching wits against her boyfriend’s cynical skepticism. Her boyfriends arguments - that with society imposing these rules and conditions, the idea of “love” was simply easier; that it was simply more… convenient to claim emotional connections and forged bonds, and tell ourselves that this was meant to be, than to realize that after the children are borne and grown, we have no real reasons to stay together - did not visibly disturb her father. Maybe he was used to them by now, she thought, but she still expected another long, restrained but sermonizing diatribe. But he surprised her by simply asking “Or, are you all, as scientists and ever curious humans, vainly trying to understand and explain the magic that keeps us together, that inspired art and provoked wars?” That, made her stop and notice her father: he seemed different. Her doubts were soon validated, when, after dinner, he quietly asked her if she would be ok if he found love again; trying to phrase it delicately and prefacing it with “I’m not trying to replace your mother. That would be foolish. Besides being impossible” She had smiled. Part wry, part joyous; she had smiled.

Bhavani was happy that her father was moving on. Finally. She had met them for dinner. He seemed to be seeking Bhavani's approval. She was amused, and strangely touched. He had come to terms with the effect his outlook on love had had on her, and she had witnessed the disquiet it caused him. But that night, as Bhavani regarded the twinkle in her father's eye, she began to wonder if his perspective might be real for some people afterall. The man who had refused to let go of his one soul mate for seventeen years, had found another; mere weeks after meeting her. That was three months ago.

And today, here she was, looking at wedding invitation mock ups. And a portrait of another soul mate. She put her glass down, picked up the invitation and began marking on it with a pencil, while simultaneously making plans to go buy some paint and a canvas.

****
Concluded

Two Painters

noreply@blogger.com (RukmaniRam) — Fri, 14 May 2010 08:47:00 +0000

Part I

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Bhavani downed her bourbon in one straight gulp and put the glass down. The alcohol burned the back of her throat in a way she found most comforting. She sighed deeply to herself, both in contentment and resignation, and picked up the fat manila envelope. She could feel the warmth spread to her fingers as she reached for the letter opener and slit the package open. Sheets of paper spilled onto her lap and spread to the floor. Amidst the various photographs, lists, notes, and invitation mock ups, she noticed a painting. It was a striking face against a monotone gray background- the brilliant russet skin stood out beautifully against the dull backdrop. As she tore her eyes away from the vivid amber ones in the face, she noticed that the painting was actually a complete portrait. A woman sat gracefully on a gray winged chair, dressed in deep green, set against an inky blue canvas - a stark portrait that was piercingly beautiful in its monochromaticity. She knew her father wanted the face to be the first thing people noticed. And she knew why. The face was one of the most bewitching and exquisite faces she had seen. The eyes were deep, with a mischievous, mirthful question that the lips seemed to be silently and motionlessly wording. In that moment, Bhavani saw her soon-to-be step mother as her father did, through his eyes. Something she had not been completely able to do since she first heard about her four months ago.

Bhavani's mother had died when she was ten. Seventeen years ago. She remembered everything from the night her mother had been killed by a random drunk driver. It had devastated her father, and he had vowed never to touch alcohol again. The bottle of scotch that he had brought to share with her mother that evening was moved to the fireplace mantle; where it had stayed since. Bhavani put the painting on her desk and refilled her drink. She took another sip and stared at the glass in her hand. It had surprised her that she turned to alcohol at times. She was a neuroscientist. She knew what alcohol did to the nervous system. Even if intense personal motivations were ignored, she should know better. It had deeply saddened her father when he found out. But he restrained himself from saying a word. Bhavani suspected that he felt guilty. For no fault of his.

Bhavani remembered over hearing her aunt tell her father, many years ago, that every growing daughter needed a mother. But her father had never remarried. But he never let Bhavani feel the loss of a mother either. He had braided her hair, bought her ear rings, taught her to cook and to love food and went shopping with her. He had brought her hot water bottles for her stomach cramps and had had the awkward sex talk with her. Bhavani missed her mother, but did not grow up without one. Her father had made sure of that.

And yet, her father’s melancholy had never disappeared. As Bhavani was growing up, she could see how much her father missed his companion. He talked to Bhavani about love. About how there was one person, your soul mate; and how in that person, you found the complementary piece you did not know you were missing; find that person, and your life is complete. The loss of her mother had deeply affected him. He sold his business and started painting fulltime. Her mother had always wanted him to paint with her. He regretted not having done that enough. So he now painted with his daughter. There was always contrast in their paintings. Bhavani painted the world as she saw it, while her father painted the world as he wished it was. There was a romance in his reds, a fantasy in his faces, an uncertain wistfulness in his visions.

Bhavani did not realize how it happened, or when it happened, but she was growing wry and jaded. She did not even notice it, till one day while she was painting a pair of love birds, her father commented on how even those birds were monogamous, about how they found their soulmates. Midway through painting the bright orange plumage, Bhavani laid the brush down and never picked it up again. For all his wisdom, her father never understood why she quit painting at the age of fifteen. Bhavani had never been able to get her father’s silent desolation out of her mind. She knew he tried not to show it, and to his credit, he had never been mopey or mournful. Each time he looked at that bottle of scotch, it was only with love and adoration and she imagined he was having a private conversation with her mother. But his unreasonable devotion intrigued her. And his proclamations of eternal and omnipotent love exasperated her. She had often wished he would move on and remarry.

PS: Unlike some people, I fully intend to give you the complete story; and quite soon too.
Update: Continued here.

Romancing the Reynolds

noreply@blogger.com (RukmaniRam) — Fri, 30 Apr 2010 07:04:00 +0000

Does not star Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner. You now know what not to expect.

There is a strange charm in putting pencil to paper. Yes, I write in pencil. I'm in grad school. I'm allowed to write everything in pencil. Except my signature, if you ever "write" that, i.e. I love my pencils. Though most of them now are the clickety-clackety, less than 1 mm tipped mechanical kind, I have a fondness for the old school wooden and wax pencils. They remind me of childhood, of innocence, of the first time I cut my finger open with a blade while trying to chip off a 1cm long strip of paint from the side of the pencil so I could etch my initials in and declare ownership of the red and black Natraj 621 HB pencil. That evening, 16 some years ago, Appa bought me my first "pen pencil". This Camlin pencil was unlike the other mechanical pencils around. It came with nice, round, multiple mm thick leads that had to be sharpened with this sprig of blades attached to the pencil's top. Made a huge grey mess everywhere, but I was very fond of it. Especially since Appa bought me that after I had been eying Anna's red one for a while and sighing deeply to myself. Aloud, ofcourse. The other prettier and fancier pen pencils were expensive. This cost all of Rs. 5, which is still pricey for pencils. Two years later, when the pencil died, I cried.

I wrote in pencil till class 4, when my Christian school demanded that we start writing with fountain pens. I was all very happy, since a pen would never become too short for me to hold. My very first pen, like most of my friends', was a Camel fountain pen. It was dark green with a rounded, golden nib. And it did not leak. That was one of life's major worries back then; the pen leaking. It leaks while you write, and your fingers are stained a royal blue. And you have to go to the taps at recess and rub your fingers vigorously against the rough stone basin to get the stain off. Plus, if you kept the pen in your pocket, and it leaked, you would incur Amma's wrath. And nobody wants that. And so, I was plenty happy with my Camel ink pen. Filled with Bril ink every night, the pen was a little too wide for my tiny hands, and is the cause for my strange grip. Nestled in the webbing between my thumb and index finger, the pen rested gently on the last knuckle of my middle finger, with my thumb wrapping around it, instead of holding it. A rather strange hold that parents, teachers and older siblings had unsuccessfully tried to change to the traditional grip for many many years.

And then I moved to the new school where it was ball point pens galore. Ofcourse, to us, they were "ball pens". Reynolds and Rotomacs abounded. Sure there were the rich kids with their "gel pens" and the snobs with the micro tip "pilot pens" (I was one of those, briefly), but we mostly preferred the rugged, hard working ball pens. In the months leading upto my tenth standard board exams, I bought a whole ten pack of Rotomacs. For some reason, the boy at the shop had a lot of those. I suspect it had something to do with Raveena Tandon dancing with that giant pen. I am almost certain of it. But my pet was the Reynold's 045. It was my very own classic. Something about the roundedness of the tip and the unicoloredness of the body of the 040 displeased me. Plus, it came in shades of pinks, purples and greens. Very unclassic. Don't get me wrong, I've used other pens- from the Khushboowala Zee from Today to the overly sharp Cello Gripper, to the pricey and pointy Cello Technotip. But I have largely remained a Reynold's loyal. Except for the brief period in when I cheated on it with my other pets- the affordable and prettier Cello Fine grip and the elegant and excellent Maxwriter. But I always came back to the white and blue pens, unpretentious and humble the way they are.

But I went to college in the land of unruled paper and multicolored gel pens. That is where I got my first Hero pen. A gift. After all those childhood years of wishful longing. By the time I graduated college, I had 4. I was never able to fill it up completely with ink. I still have them, and every time I write with them, I watch the ink dry as I write, captivated by the beauty of the tiny tip tracing curves and crossing t's; leaving in it's wake beautiful words - scientific terms to proclamations of love. To me, even today, it is a magical sight. One that does not translate well electronically. I tried to follow the cursor, but it only left behind a meaningless string of alphabet, characters without character.

It maybe a wholly different matter that I am sort of in love with my penmanship, but it is partly the reason for my love of writing on paper. Having seen the handwriting of grownups, who for many years never used a pen except for their signatures; I decided my handwriting was too pretty to die like that. Maybe I am being romantic about it, but reading another person's words in their writing, to me, is like reading it in their own voice. Like the old movies where the heroine's water marked face spoke to the hero from the letter, telling him why their love had to end. I remember the times when I scouted the last pages of Gokulam looking for a suitable pen pal, amongst people form strange, far away lands like Parry's Corner. Old love letters and birthday cards mean so much more than emails and chat histories. Not that I don't appreciate the immediateness and the potential foreverness of those. But I can never angrily throw away an email in the fire and watch it curl up in flames. The most dramatic I can do, as someone put it, is hit the delete button.

There is a strange charm in putting pencil to paper. Yes, I write in pencil. Heck, I wrote my proposal outline in pencil. And gave it to my boss, ruled paper and all. I even wrote this post in pencil. On paper. Including this line that says I will later type it up to serve on an electronic table, for all to read in their own voices.

P.S: Largely inspired by a conversation with this fabulous flautist and overall amazing person.

P.P.S: The P.S. and the P.P.S. are the only two lines that did not exist on paper.

Update: Dear Richmonders and other non Tamil speakers, "Appa" is father, "Amma", mother and "Anna" is elder brother.

Extinction of Species

noreply@blogger.com (RukmaniRam) — Wed, 07 Apr 2010 15:51:00 +0000

PS: Yes, that dragon just ate.

Hairbrained

noreply@blogger.com (RukmaniRam) — Sat, 03 Apr 2010 06:58:00 +0000

PS: Based on an actual conversation with a bespectacled spiky haired dude with a bald patch, whose representation in this doodle is not misleading at all.

PPS: Soon after this we discussed whether it is 'larger wavelength' or 'longer wavelength'

Once upon a Blog

noreply@blogger.com (RukmaniRam) — Wed, 17 Mar 2010 22:29:00 +0000

Dear dear 100+ people (really?) who read my blog... how've you all been? Have a good new years? Lovely Valentine's day? Enjoying the spring? What have you all been upto all this while? Let me tell you what happened in my life.. better still, I'll show you.

PS: I finished my last course based test, the last written exam of my life - my life- this past month. I will only ever have two more exams ever. I am still not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing.

PPS: Unless, I decide to get another degree. Again, I'm not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing.

PPPS: Happy St. Patrick's day! (Yes, I'm wearing green in celebration of my Irish heritage.)

Hair Force One -Operation Dis Tress

noreply@blogger.com (RukmaniRam) — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 22:13:00 +0000

Yes. So it is. Six months and a few scraggly days. Since my last hair cut. Major chop chop that. Happened in a tiny, shady corner room that cost Rs. 100. The haircut cost Rs.100, not the room.

For a person who has had waist length hair since 1996, and spent years before then trying to get it to grow that long, I am really growing fond of the short hair.(Ok. I've wanted short hair since 1997. But still.) Or, as Violet would put it, obsessed with my hair. You see, I've never had hair around my face. I've never had wind in my hair. I've never needed anything more than a rubber band for my hair. But now I have a round brush, a paddle brush, hair pins, hair bands, hair bands with claws (sounds ominous, no?), barettes, bungees and scrunchys. All this has, predictably, left me with a little lesser money than I'd like. Which means I have none left to maintain this sassy style. Which in turn means, that I have to cut my hair myself. All of you there now going "but well that's easy... you just pull your hair to the front and go snip snip in one straight line": it's a little more complicated than that.

You see, as with anything I do, I began with doing my homework. Not schoolwork. Homework. As in, going online and googling the heck out of "how to cut your own hair". When I was in the des, the Rs.100 bought me the standard issue "step cut". For the hairstyle lingo challenged readers, that's the bushy multilayered sticks out in odd angles hair that you see on any standard issue dilli girl. I did not want to replicate that. But I did want some style. Or as multiple sites put it "layers to maintain definition and give the hair some movement".

So then, armed with the unfanciest hair shears my perpetual adversity would permit me to afford, and all the knowledge a true at heart engineer ever needs to perform any task, I set about snipping my hair in strategic places paying diligent attention to the lengths, angles and densities. And I now sport the I'm-so-cool-I-don't-pay-attention-to-my-hair frumpy style. Perfect for the uber chic grad student.

So there, one more thing I can do myself. One more skill that will come in handy when I face possible unemployment and find myself walking steadfast towards definite poverty. I will be... "RukmaniRan... her own barber shop"

P.S: All overly zealous feminists: start an online petition to call it womenstruation instead.

Desserted in December

noreply@blogger.com (RukmaniRam) — Wed, 16 Dec 2009 07:33:00 +0000

Hello world.

[Ok, world is too much.] Hello internet people.

[Still too much.] Hello people who read my blog.

[Actually] Hello people who read my blog and noticed I havent written anything in a while and also noticed that Cayenne ghost wrote for me. How've you all been?

My dear little bike is in the shop. That's right, I went all unstingy and finally took it to the shop for a tune up. The basic, not more than $30, just check the brakes and gears tune up. I figured, when I get it back, it will be all swanky and smooth, and I would be tempted to give my bike a name, like all those corny guys and their cheesy named vehicles. But I don't know what I would call it. It was a hand me down, and I have no idea how old it is. Which, incidentally, is very similar to my brother's last bicycle (and by last, I don't mean the one he had before his current one, because he currently doesn't have one. I mean literally, the last bike he ever owned. Except, he never referred to it as a bike). You see, his was also a hand-me-down-that-no-one-knows-how-old-it-is kinda bike, which was called... "Street Hawk" (Christened by his friends, after a failing tv show that aired on doordarshan and caught the fancy of an entire neighborhood of tam brahm boys. It was supposed to be ironic, or sarcastic, or something like that). But anyway, the cute guy at the shop with the Eastman Technicolor tattooed arms told me today that the bike needed new cables and the wheels needed to be tensioned and trued. You know how much new cables cost? I still gave in, and decided to pay for the sweet ride that I will get when I get my bike back. Which I really wish is soon. I miss it. It spoke to me. (Muahaha).

But the fact that I don't have my bike is not the reason I didn't write. It's the reason I haven't been out exploring more obscure parts of Richmond; and instead, spent most time in my neighborhood. Which is filled mostly with houses, tiny shops and tinier restaurants. Since I can't very well walk into someone's house, and I definitely can't afford food at the itty bitty pretentious restaurants, I spend at the shops. Largely time. Money, not so much. Except the one time that I bought fancy porcelain mugs. I have a thing for mugs. I have so many of them, that I have some packed away, and still have plenty to go around. But in my defense, those are all large mugs. The kind you drink hot chocolate, or coffee in. These though, are a fashionably non-detailed, tea cup sized set of four. Perfect for tea. Which I brew in a flowery tea pot and flavor with local honey. And I am in awe of my tea pot owning, mug buying, tea drinking self. I feel so posh.

But the shopping and tea drinking is not the reason I haven't been writing. It's the holidays. And I've been spending lots of time in the kitchen; not ogling my mugs. I have been making Christmas gifts. Yes. Making. In the kitchen. Want to know what you all are missing? Chocolate sauce, Hot fudge sauce, hazelnut truffles, and Cherry cinnamon granola. Except those of you who live in Richmond and know me and I like. Yes, we are going to be merry around Christmas. We have fancy two feet tall tree and all. With tiny plastic candy canes and baubles, complete with a miniature nativity set. And regular sized stockings. It's funny how everything else is scaled down, but the gift carriers are regular sized. Spirit of Christmas only it is. And you know what's going to stuff my stocking? (No, not my chubby legs. Save the snicker.) Vanilla beans, and local wildflower honey baby! (Yes, I give food and I receive food. What goes around, comes around. Except, I never thought I would be cheering it coming around so much). The honey is going to be the bestest. It's from my bee keeper friend. (I always make it a point to mention my bee keeper friend whenever I can. It sounds fancy, and by simple relation, makes me fancy too! Especially when I show off the creamed honey, and the cut comb honey.) And when my bee keeper friend comes over, I'm making latkes! A German and a tambrahm enjoying Jewish food for Christmas. Life's good.

P.S: To those who wondered-Cayenne is a langotiya yaar. A chaddi buddy. We share a connection only surpassed by the one he has with his girlfriend. And by J.D. and Turk. And he's beloved enough that I haven't changed my password yet.

The Blogger is married...

noreply@blogger.com (RukmaniRam) — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 07:40:00 +0000

...to the engineering school.

PS: The hard part isn't doing the engineering phd. It is dealing with engineering phd doing you.
PPS: Posted by Cayenne as the blogger is busy getting screwed

Choices

noreply@blogger.com (RukmaniRam) — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 21:42:00 +0000

Alamelu woke up. She realized she had woken up by herself. No alarm had gone off. No one had called her. No one had knocked on her door. She was surprised at herself. That too on a day she had decided not to go to work.It had been a tough week, especially on the personal front. Her father, whom she had been estranged from for 4 years now was trying hard to get in touch with her and make amends. He sent her email, photos, packages in the mail. She had disregarded all of them. She could not do it. She could not forgive him. He had been a good father, but sometimes an unforgiving one. It was in her genes, she thought.

At 26, Alamelu was the oldest unmarried woman in her entire extended family. All her sisters, cousins, and even most of her friends had done the right thing. They studied hard, got a good job, which they quit at 23 to marry some Iyengar boy settled in the US. That was not for her though. In college she had met and dated a fashionable Mumbaikar. And when she was about to graduate, she told her parents about him. It surprised and shocked everyone. Shocked people who had met her, because, she, Alamelumangai, with her long oiled hair in a neat braid did not look like someone who would do this to her parents. People who knew her well, were surprised because she, Alamu, with her strategically hidden tattoo was too much of a globe trotting rebel to settle down with a husband and kids. Yes, she had surprised them all. And surprised them even more by making that relationship work for 7 years across countries and timezones.

And that was why her father was reaching out to her now. He wanted to see his only daughter married. Even if it was to some Marathi boy. She had proven her love by making it last. And now she had her father's blessing.

That bothered Alamelu. She wasn't sure she wanted to be married. And certainly unsure about Rahul. No. She didn't think she would marry someone who would fit right in into a Karan Johar movie. The uncertainty was heightened by the new guy she had met. Tall and Turkish, he had walked into her office. When the shift ended at 9.30 that night, he offered her a ride home, during which mentioned that he found her pretty. Alamelu reflexively frowned at him. But upon reflection, realized it was just the thing she needed to hear. It also made her realize things had just ended with Rahul. That night she imagined how her father would react if she brought a new boy home. An Arab at that. Her thoughts took her to the first time she mentioned Rahul. Her father had blown a fuse. It was no surprise. It was the exact reaction she received when she told him she was going to major in Psychology and not Engineering. She remembered feeling guilty. She remembered graduating with a B. Tech.

And here she was again. At a place where she had to make a choice. All of her family and all of Rahul's family expected them to get married. And now she knew she didn't want to. She wanted to tell Rahul it was all over. But she could not bring herself to. Rahul cared about her too much. And there was more at stake than what she was feeling. Breaking those unspoken vows that had gotten them through those seven years had consequences. Of putting her parents and his through all of it. And immediately, again, she felt guilty. Guilty about making a choice that affected her life more than anything else- simply because to everyone else it was a given; there was no two ways about it. She was feeling guilty about making a choice because nobody had expected it of her to be making such choices. With a chuckle she wondered if she was Jewish.

As she lay there staring at the ceiling fan, vaguely following its low hum, Alamu wondered if all her decisions were affected by her need to rebel. She wanted to believe that it was outrageous to even think that; but she suspected that it might have a sliver of truth. Having been taught to be considerate of others feelings first, she realized she could not end it with Rahul simply because of what him and their families would go through. She could not date a Turk simply because she could not put her father through it once again. She remembered all the lessons she had been taught as a child; most important of which was that there were consequences. There were always consequences. When you made a decision, you honored it by following through. She did not know if those lessons were right. But she knew she did not have the courage to investigate them. With that realization, she called her father, asked for his forgiveness, and asked him to arrange for a weeding within the next three months.

Vaudeville is in the Details

noreply@blogger.com (RukmaniRam) — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 00:06:00 +0000

I thought crumpling freshly ironed clothes was depressing. Although that is decreasing.

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Defender bender: minor collision between two lawyers

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Being a conservative requires serious deliberating

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I don't like the only candidate for this post. I need to find a denominator.

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I am confused. I need a decider. Although, sometimes, I jut need cider.

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Some say all this new age technology has brought sloth. Would that mean that we simply need a device?

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If inflate is the opposite if deflate, is incision the opposite of decision? Does institute mean the opposite as destitute?

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How is it that part and depart mean the same?

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I wonder if witch hunts were started as a form of demonstration

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I am sure the antonym of assert is dessert.

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If you run uphill on a warm day, it needs to be followed by a serious descent

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Dottie was an unruly child. Dottie needed a despot.

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P.S: Jerry Seinfeld is coming to town. Me and Paprika quarrel about whether or not we can afford it. Unity in diversity is easier than unity in adversity.

Gaah

noreply@blogger.com (RukmaniRam) — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 05:16:00 +0000

I think I have earned the right to rant on my blog and vent out to strangers (most of) whose faces I have never seen. With school in session, and all the free stuff that comes with it (right now I'm wearing a shirt that proclaims that I belong to the class of 2013. And some people believed it. Highlight of my day) you would think my life would be better. More interest groups. More student clubs. More people. More work. More excuses. New apartment. New neighbors. Bigger kitchen. Cable. You would think this would make life more interesting. My school has a 'quidditch club'. Much fun. I wondered how they were going to fly high. Many ideas. Then they told me they only run around with the brooms. Life is still teetering on the perilously thin wall between meh and blah. The only good feeling I have is the "runners high" I get from biking my way to and from school. And that's just sad. What's worse is that I'm getting used to the distance and it'll soon no longer be strenuous enough. Also gaah is the realization that said bike is growing old and needs serious tune up. Or replacement. But it's the recession. People are no longer giving away free bikes.

Gaahd help me.

I... Miss India

noreply@blogger.com (RukmaniRam) — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 02:30:00 +0000

I'm... home... sick...

I'm assuming all you smart folks out there read those two lines right. Else, the previous statement should have made you.

I've been told a vacation to the des makes you feel this way when it's over. Even if you had been itching to get back midway during the vacation.. being annoyed with the powercuts, the heat, the crowds and the fact that to be connected to the internet, you still have to have a cord running from your computer to the modem. The last few days of the vacation are ofcourse, a totally different matter. With mommy asking you "oorku eduthundu poga enna panni tharattum?" ("what shall I make for you to take back with you".. read 'food') and daddy asking you if you needed cash. And that kinda tends to take the wind out of you for a while. And you begin to miss it all. Ok not all. Mum's maalaadu mostly, to be honest. But there are things that I miss terribly and often. Things that I don't have anymore. And not just because I'm in a different geographic location. But also in a different temporal location. (I'm writing a paper, ok. Deal with the geekese)

Like weekends and newspapers. They simply go together. When I was about ten years old, my school asked us to develop the habit of reading newspapers. And the max I managed was to read the 'Young World'. And fight with my brother for it. It was also around this time that I learned to read upside down alphabet. I figured I'd read read the newspaper as I grew older. But even then I simply graduated to the Sunday Magazine. (Yes yes, I favored The Hindu over any other newspaper. Even when in Delhi, and ToI forced itself down my throat through the Newspapers in Education program.) The only thing the main paper had to interest me was the center page - with the crossword pzzle and the op eds. And often, I saved them and read them over the weekend. And I don't have that anymore. I mean, I havent held a newspaper in this country. Unless you count the "Lifestyle" section that my coffee mugs came wrapped in. Yeah sure, with 24 hour newschannels, and the internet newspapers are rapidly becoming passe. But that's just sad.

Or the rainy season. It was the funnest. Sure, Delhi didn't have much of a monsoon most of the time, and Thanjavur simply succeeded in muddying my pants. But still. Running sopping wet through puddles and hearing your shoes squelch when you hit concrete. Or chai pakode. Those are things I haven't had in a while. Fall is beautiful and all, but it's no monsoon.

And oh, the radio. Specifically, AIR Delhi FM, and the Chennai stations. There's something about the radio playing in the background while I'm sipping tea/kaapi. The tea kadai effect, if you will. There's always something about music whose source I can't place... music that sounds distant.. music from another room. Ah, Jude Law... Er. Oh. Sorry. To try to reproduce the tea kadai effect to a close approximation, I play the Chennai radio often on my computer. Even at work. I obsessively searched for a website that would let me listen to it, but I just managed to find one that plays Chennai stations 7 to 9. So if anyone knows a place I can listen to it at night, let me know ok? It's not so much what it plays - I don't like half of it, and can't really place the other- but I still want it. For the fake radio voices, and the silly set ups. It's like what Sun TV used to be to my mum when we moved to Delhi. Something to ground her to Chennai, a faint link, that even though is mostly stuff we don't necessarily care about, is still about some place we would like to be.

It's not just the radio. I even obsessed about cable TV for a while. I don't even like the programming. Like they say about the superbowl, I just watch it for the ads. Face it, advertisements in this country are b.o.r.i.n.g. And totally unimaginative. Ok, I accept it's hard to sell prescription medications in a fun way. I also accept the fact that when I was in the des, I always made fun of the ads. But I now miss what I have lost. I spend innumerable hours on youtube watching ads. I want desi TV. Well, maybe if I moved to New Jersey...

And the potti kadais. I was in Chennai a while ago, and this potti kadai we used to buy bananas from is now just a shanty cabin with inches of posters on every inch of the surface. Maybe the person who owned it moved on to a bigger shop. Hopefully. It's not even just the potti kadais: I don't even remember one in Delhi. But just the street shops and carts, you know. Like bargaining for bhindi or haggling over a handbag (fake Fendi ofcourse). Shopping is just not fun without it. And grocery shopping is so much worse. While buying food, I want to smell its freshness, not see it's sell by date. And I want to pick from a cart, not drop stuff into one.

I miss the simple life. The vibrant life. With it's multitude of flavors and smells and colors. Now all is bland. Boo.

P.S: maalaadu = besan laddoo; Tea kadai = Tea Stall; potti kadai = small stall shop, usually selling stuff found in a convenience store, only at regular price.

Typocal Names

noreply@blogger.com (RukmaniRam) — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 05:59:00 +0000

Hello World.

When away from India, a name as normal an indubitably tam brahmish as mine becomes compliacated and unendurably long. (Ram in only the beginning of my last name. I know, I know there are people with longer names out there. I feel your pain. Don't flame me.) Yes, yes, all ye desis living in the vides, I'm talking about the involuntary but mandatory butchering of beautiful, exotic names. My name, now, is by default Rukmaahni. Even the single videsi who learnt to say desi properly (after days and hours of repeating daisy, I finally explained that it was pronounced theysee) couldn't get my name right. Forget the videsis. Even the desis mess up my name. From the deliberate "Rukmini" to the more tambrahmish "Rukkumani", I've seen most of it. But that doesn't bother me much you see. As long as my name is printed right, I really don't care. I've had worse names. Far worse than Rukaaamni.

But when you print my name wrong, it gets me. I don't know why. I guess it started when in middle school my name got misspelled as RUCKMANI in the class register and it took me over a year to get it corrected everywhere, and stop feeling like a rugby term. And when you spend as much time online as I do, and people are yelling your name all over cyberspace..... things happen.

Like RukmaniRan. I didn't know what I was running from, but apparently I did. Or Rikmani and Yukmani. I mean, "Excuse me, but do I disgust you *that* much?" How about Rukmami? Ok, I'm a tam brahm, and I definitely look the part. But please, the last thing I want to be referred to as is mami- especially as part of my name. Wait. That's not the last thing. That would be Ruknani. If I'm not a mami, I'm definitely not a nani.

At this juncture, I would also like to thank the soul, who I can only assume, as a prank, ordered in a subscription of "Working Mother" with my name and address. I appreciate the joke. It was a very innovative prank, seeing as I'm neither a mother, nor am I employed. Besides, it did prove to be a wonderful read. But I only wish it came to Rukmani instead of Rukman. I am enough tomboy without having to display it through my name.

And as usual, I saved the best for the last. Thanks to the one inglorious typo, I was rechristened Tukmani. That's ok. It's an obvious typo. No harm intended. But that singular, harmless typo, led to a newer nickname that stuck. Forever. So bad that when my roomie tried to wake me up, she used that name. It was almost on my birthday cake. I had to move cities and make a whole new set of friends to stop people using that name. Guys (by which I mean those who fondly gave me this name that would never leave me) if you're reading this: as much as I adore that I have a nickname, please keep it an inside joke. Don't run it in the comments!

P.S: To all those who missed me, and to the two persons who said so: I'm sorry. I was trying to live in the real world. Shame, I know. And I have learned better. I could not survive in there, and I have now come running back. Accept me please, won't you? I know you will.

Plisxcuse

noreply@blogger.com (RukmaniRam) — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 03:20:00 +0000

Mandatory Pimpance:

Presenting! Friend, fellow English enthusiast, and master wordsmith... Kindly be gracing with your presence

Indigenius

noreply@blogger.com (RukmaniRam) — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 22:38:00 +0000

Hello Hello

Finally back from a long vacation to the des.

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~~New glasses.~~

New _non nerdy_ glasses

Spend atleast 5 hours in SN market combing it for deals, spending quality time with the mum.

Drink juice at Shyam Juice Stall, SN Market

Eat Chat at nameless chat stall next to Shyam Juice Stall

Quarrel with the mum about what to buy at chat stall

Shop at an outrageously priced clothes store in Chennai and buy something that can be bought atleast 5 times cheaper in most Delhi markets

Drive dad's car

Ride the MTC bus in Chennai, and wonder about the distance they take you for the price they charge you

Dear old Elliots Beach

Visit dear darling Creche Aunty

~~Eat enough mangoes to make up for the lost 2 years~~

Don't get chubbier

Get tsk tsked by relatives about how mucher thinner/darker/ not taller you've become

"When are you getting married?" / "Not for another 3 more years atlest" / "Achacho. Don't talk like that. You will be too old by then. It should all happen in due time, no?

Finish work freshly assigned by Dr. Advisor

~~Replace battery in 11 year old Titan watch, and straps in 1 year old WalMart watch~~

Bring Titan watch with new battery with self

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A few things that weren't on the agenda that happened successfully anyway

# Acquire a morbid fear of death by road accident

# Come across as a very chamathu tam brahm girl.

# Spend a night at the hospital.

# Dad's mango milk shake.

# Eat at an overpriced restaurant and then observe that I could have made it better.

# Realize one can never "become" rich enough to shop at South Ex, you have to be born that way.

# Realize I'll never be able to buy property in the city. Any city.

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The Desi Vacation

Jollygood

noreply@blogger.com (RukmaniRam) — Tue, 26 May 2009 20:12:00 +0000

P.S: I saw that movie twice when I was a kid. I haven't seen it since. I wonder if anything new has happened since.

Phbbt!

noreply@blogger.com (RukmaniRam) — Thu, 07 May 2009 00:12:00 +0000

aka Please Holdon. Blogger Break Taking.

Last exam tomo. After which I have 3 weeks of extreme rigor.

The Illiterate Scribe - Now in xkcd!

noreply@blogger.com (RukmaniRam) — Wed, 29 Apr 2009 19:49:00 +0000

Complete with mouseover - text

P.S: Another blog post on an exam eve. Must be the caffeine. Or the idle mind.

P.P.S: The break is still on. Exams, you see.

Update- For those of you who do not know what or where xkcd is. Your non geekiness is forgiven.

Crosstalk

noreply@blogger.com (RukmaniRam) — Sun, 26 Apr 2009 06:21:00 +0000

Conversation with Violet, who has been sitting about 7 feet across from me

RR: There is a ballad in my salad, And a sonnet in my bonnet. There is an ode in my abode, And a jingle in my Monet. In my tune, there is a rune, In my wrong, there is a song- What felt worse before verse, was a poem all along
Violet:who rote it?
RR: i read it in another blog; it was quoted there
Vi: gessd
RR: i think its the height of being glued to ur laptop, when ud rater type long and fast when u can actually just open ur mouth and talk
.
.
.
.
.
.
Vi: ya.....
(And the conversation continued on)

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Me be taking a blogging break. It's just like a jogging break. (Ok, not so much, except for the rhyming part.) Too much vark, I say. I will leave you all with another of my little insights into life. (All true wisdom is found in my jokes, no?)

What is this world so full of care, there's no time to stand and stare. Except when you are window shopping, of course.

P.S: Maybe someday I will come up with something witty enough, and someone will finally love me

Image Source: xkcd. Like you didn't know