I'm jumping into the tank

Forget travel writer, sports editor. Forget the government udhyogam too. Working for a think tank, in any capacity, has got to be the coolest job around. Hands down. I can't quite put my finger on it but there seems to be a ring to it. A think. And then a tank. A think tank. *Shivers* It was only recently that I started paying attention to them. On TV, they are always the impeccable folks. They are the ones in nice suits, with white teeth and neat hair cuts. I can imagine their entry into a party bringing an abrupt end to all chatter as people turn their heads to get a glimpse, forks in mid air.

I personally don't know what gets done inside one of think tanks or what kind of people are hired. And I don't think they are in the habit of conducting open houses or having stalls at job fairs in colleges either. So it is left to an individual's imagination to paint a picture of one. Don't ask me why but I always come up with a very silent, well furnished office. No work tables or computers, just some lazboys scattered around and a walk up drink bar. And important looking people staring intently at the ceiling or chewing their nails with an intense look. Breaking every now and then only to spit out masticated cuticles. All the tell tale signs of thinking minds at work.

Whatever it is, the possibilities of being part of a think tank give me goosebumps just thinking about it. Excuse the unintended pun. If you haven't really warmed up to the idea, imagine a job description that says:

The candidate must be:

Willing to think.

Proficient in thinking about multiple things.

Must be able to think with very little supervision.

Able to think as part of a team and also individually.

Occasionally may be required to think during weekends.

Except for the last point, it is tough to beat that kind of duties. Or imagine having this conversation with your boss:

Boss: Here is something for you to think about: .

You: When do you need this?

Boss: This one is due tomorrow morning.

You: I'll think about it.

Boss: Thanks man! I really can count on you.

Or this:

Boss: Have you completed the Penske assignment?

You: I thought about it the whole of last week. The results from the thought experiment seem to be accurate.

Boss: Excellent! Just what I wanted to hear.

And if you are still not convinced, your Out-of-office note can read: I'm thinking out of the box next week with little to no access to my mind. My thoughts may be delayed. If you can't hold your thoughts, think about my manager.

Have you ever wondered how these people make money? When was the last time you became aware that a think tank actually laid roads and provided clean drinking water to any population? Have you seen someone from your local think tank in hard hats and work boots? Me neither. I mean, you don't read about a think tank being associated with anything even remotely related to actual work. Or getting stuff done. Not surprisingly, I haven't seen the annual financial reports of a think tank or how the shares of Think Tank Inc. are trading these days. But flipping through the pages of any newspaper, you come across a think tanker (You heard it first here!) always having an opinion, a few words and, of course, thoughts on just about anything under the sun. In other words, if there is a tree on which money grows, you will find it on their premises.

No wonder then, that there are atleast 5,465 of them worldwide, with a good 1,777 of them based in the US. At a conservative 10 guys per tank, there are over 54 thousand think tankers (You heard it a second time here too!) amongst us. A pretty elite group. And I'm making it known now and here that I'm eager to be counted as one among them. It's official: I'm on the lookout for think tanks planning to hire. As long as they actually pay me and don't just think about it, that is. I'm no free thinker!

Save the telly

The time has come to take a few decisions to cleanse the airwaves and rid them of some wrongs that have crept in and simply refuse to leave. The people at the helm seem to be napping. Or may be even paralyzed. So I take this opportunity to come out with the list. A list of not what I want to see on air - that is not going to cater to wide sections of the public, but rather what I want to see off the air. If only the folks are listening...

Mega serials

Every single one of them is to be stopped with immediate effect. This phenomenon has led to the rise of an entire class of people who think they are actually furthering the purpose of art by appearing on a soap. Devoid of any histrionic capability, they have invaded every household. Yes, this will lead to large scale unemployment of unskilled workers and leave the viewers with up to 26 hrs in a day. But I never said this is going to be easy.

Compering

Compering of all varieties should stop. No arguments here. I've sounded my distaste for this here, briefly. A compere is not much different from the safari clad supervisors in the better off bhavans in Chennai: adding little to no value and coming in the way of your waiter and a quick meal. So are we doing away with it completely? No, in its place we will have simple announcement cards a la Doordarshan (Remember sketch pen letters on charts?) may be add a bit of techno music in the background. The point being, informative and effective. More importantly, no mindless blabbering between songs or comedy clips. We're doing away with this on the general principle that money should be earned.

Radhika

I'm against show business and politics coming under the clutches of a chosen few and continuing to be run as a family business. Unfortunately, that is the current reality and ironically, the beneficiaries are the very people who abhor the varnashrama dharma. But that is another story for another day. Unlike a family run grocery store or a tailoring business, family run politics and entertainment, with their reach on the general public, will have serious fallouts, one of which is poor performance being foisted on an innocent public. A sorry situation where the scion learns the trade by repetition, stars get churned out by turn, stardom gets inherited rather than earned. And as if the homegrown variety of nuisances on air aren't enough, we have one of Sri Lankan flavor to deal with. Without further ado, say hello to Radhika, India's answer to Oprah, gram for gram and MR Radha's greatest mistake. Or second greatest if you count Radha Ravi. Her serials is where Jurassic Park meets pudhumai penn and she is always the revolutionary female T-Rex. She continues to don the lady wronged role with the same keenness that Sachin shows while playing ODI #442. But I say its time to take a bow. Thank you.

Sob stories in game shows

A game show is a sad time, I agree. I mean, there you are, sitting on the couch and watching someone make money with the help of nothing more than blind luck is sad enough. But the contestants airing their sorry stories is when you are pushing the limit. I thought there was a law against this? May be not. Same with the dance/song shows where participants require no prompting to turn on the waterworks at the drop of a hat. Come, participate and leave. Save your tears for elsewhere.

Chemistry

The one word that is being bandied about on air by just about anybody. Every 2 bit judge in every 2 bit dance show has to mention this one word to sound knowledgeable. The minute they say "ungalukkulla oru chemistry illai" a halo comes on over their head and the rest of us, mere mortals, bow our heads in respect for their intellect and the profound statement. Last I heard, Venkataraman Ramakrishnan has returned his Nobel and even his class XII certificate to distance himself from this subject.

Stand up comedy

"indha court-la paatheenganna rombha comedy irukkum. ippdi thaan oru vaatti..."

Stand up comedy is not standing up and delivering well recycled, slightly customized jokes that have seen better days on the internet. Period. It simply doesn't fly. Even if you deliver them in Madurai/Nellai slang. Throw in a poorly ventilated set, sweaty contestants in over-sized suits and two judges that are not even remotely funny and we have ourselves a recurring pain. This one is going out baby.

Kids

Read my lips: I love kids. But only the ones that look, sound and act like kids. And that means not the ones on TV who seem to be acting way over their age. I know they are not to be blamed. No matter which channel or which time, there is a kid either singing, dancing or acting in an adhiga prasangi manner. The last straw is kids doing stand up comedy. Parents, stop living vicariously through your kids that have just stepped out of their diapers. Damn I miss the Wonder Balloon and Little Stars of Doordarshan's evening program line up when kids were, I don't know, really kids!

Anu Hassan

A talk show must be engaging both the guests and audiences alike. That requires a strong host who is not in awe of the guests. Armed with politically safe/tame/bland questions, she refuses to bring out any interesting facets of the guest every single time. And the show comes across as undercooked and underwhelming and annoying as she toes their line, agrees with their points and laughs at the lamest of their jokes. And looks like a complete fool. It takes talent to get a successful talk show going but unfortunately she only has a popular last name and little else. A complete waste of airtime.

Anuradha Sriram

No arguments here, this one's unanimous. She's gotta go.

God is great and 200 n.o

2044 hrs, 24th Feb, 2010

God chose Gwalior as his theater and wore jersey no. 10 and dabbed the full and wide 49.3rd ball wide of point. History was created. The back held up, the shoulders that bore the burden of carrying a weak team for the most part of the past two decades held up, the legs seemed to carry him with no effort. It was an almost flawless, well paced innings that defied age, belief and a formidable bowling attack. The date could well have been 24th Feb 199X.

It is now the innings break as I post this and the Springbok batsmen could very well come out and spoil the party and post 402. But that will be insignificant, bearable and even keeping with the protocol of India ending up losers through many of the Master's best knocks in the past.

But what really matters is that a wrong committed in my hometown, on borrowed legs, on a summer day in 1997 has been righted. An ignominy has been erased. Pride is now restored; a 13 year wound healed. I was jumping like a school girl and mouthing the unprintable. I'm happy.

Step aside Saeed Anwar and Charles Coventry. Take a bow Sachin! Thank you!

Drama on the ice

The Winter Olympics 2010 is on at Vancouver. Seated in the tropics, what better way to symbolize the spirit of participation than coax a few words out of my own misadventures in snow from a few years back?

It was the winter of 2004. I was stationed in a customer site in, yet again, a small town in Northern Japan. I don't know if it is their language or work culture, but global warming seems to keep away from this country. The two winters that I have experienced there were both brutal and unforgiving. As a die hard Chennai-ite, the only time that I ever came in contact with ice, besides licking ice cream that is, was while defrosting our 165L workhorse of a Kelvinator refrigerator. You remember that? Yes, the coolest one. If the thermometer so much as dipped below 25, I'd feel highly uncomfortable and when it did go below 20 during the early mornings of the few non-summer months, I'd be involuntarily feeling for the second blanket to stave off onset of frost bite. I mean, as a tribe, we call 35deg C as pleasant as long as we have a ceiling fan spinning overhead. So for someone with this background, plus the 3 years of surviving Arizona's summers, being pitchforked into the frozen boonies in rural Japan was, to say the least, a thermal shock. Well, one has got to be a Jap in Japan. Or atleast try to be one. I soldiered on, braving blizzards, slippery roads and knee deep snow en route to work, to get something to eat and whatever else that I had to take care of in the great frozen outdoors.

It must have been the fact that I didn't miss a day's work even when it had snowed 8" overnight. Perhaps it was the fact that I did not slip or fall while walking on ice even while wearing my sneakers with a balding sole. I'm not sure what convinced them about my athletic abilities of the winter sport kind, but it came to pass one fine morning when the customer that I was working with on that project, Mrs. I, walked up to me at the cafeteria and asked if I would be interested in joining her and her husband for a day of fun in the ice the following weekend. Since she knew where I was from, I checked if she was indeed talking about defrosting her fridge. No, I'm just kidding. What she had in mind was taking me to the nearby ski resort for a day of skiing. But what does a Chennai-ite know about mobility on snow? The last time that I tried to get from point A to B (~10 yards, in my case) on snow on an early spring night in Boston, I nearly froze myself after falling into a slush (with my leather jacket on) and had a sumptuous Mexican dinner afterwards. So I always maintain a respectful distance from anything cold and slippery. Yet, it was the customer that was asking me and as I was given to believe, early on in my career, that the customer is always right. In the event that they are wrong, they are still right. So in the interest of customer satisfaction (a corporate level value), I agreed to go with them. Hell, I said yes just as soon as she had offered. But I had this nagging uneasiness as the day approached.

Just like the rest of her countrymen, she was punctual and turned up at my hotel lobby at 7am even as I was fighting with myself to appear like someone who had been awake and looking forward to this moment. Both of which I was clearly not. The husband, differently abled in English, was a high-school math teacher and given my general numerical abilities, the conversation was minimal. We drove through scenic countryside and in quick time arrived at the resort.

How does a tropic-vasi prepare for a day out when the temperature was 6 degrees below freezing? Well, I took our family tradition of wearing a sweater for an evening show in Chennai in June and extrapolated it to the climes that I found myself in. I had about 4 layers of clothing under my snow jacket that I had bought a few days earlier. I even took enough care to bring along my woollen monkey cap. In other words, I looked like an oversized rag doll. The couple were near professionals and were fitted out right for the day and owned all equipment. So I waddled over to the rental counter and added an additional layer of clothing and was issued with a pair of ski blades, poles and goggles. I looked every bit your regular skier except for any actual skills or experience. Let the show begin!

The husband, who must be a very patient teacher, spent nearly an hour with me on a stretch that can be called a slope in the same manner that Y Gee Mahendran is a comedian. An hour that he could have spent taming exhilarating slopes in his wife's company. To my credit, in that period, I went from being extremely clumsy to only clumsy. Satisfied with my progress, the master put me through the first solo trip.

Sometimes a set of words that you have read many times over suddenly makes sense when you are reading them on a lazy afternoon. That is when you actually 'get it'. Call it a moment of clarity or realization but that experience hands you knowledge. At that instant, you know what you didn't until then. Well, during my first solo trip, I had the same revelation about Mr. Newton's first law of motion which runs thus: A body (or a man) continues in its state of rest or state of continuous motion unless acted on by a force. I was in my state of rest until I got drafted into ski duties and once I was on the slope, in all its mildness, I entered the said state of continuous motion. Which is not a bad thing if it were not for a bunch of kids who were directly in my path of uncontrolled continuous motion. While I had all the intentions, my Japanese at that point was not mature enough to ask them to flee from approaching danger. Nor was my technique developed enough to bring myself to a stop. So I let out a sequence of full throated "Tasukete kudasai!" Which means, er, help please. Not a good choice, you may notice, under the circumstances. A few of the innocent ones, those that actually paid attention to me, rolled up their sleeves and attempted to arrest my motion. Things came to an end in a melee of flailing arms, equipment and various items of winter clothing. Luckily, towards the end of the dramatic sequence, there was no blood on the snow; only a few disheveled kids swearing to watch out for me in future and their parents who were keen on not missing an opportunity to showcase the richness of the Japanese language in cursing.

The master and his consort, in spite of watching this episode, hurriedly pronounced me proficient to take on some actual slopes. Customer satisfaction, remember? We went to the cable car station. They were benches on which you sit with your skis on and at the summit, you jump off the car and slide to the top of the slope. Fueled by an intense wave of self preservation and in blatant violation of corporate values, I defied their request and refused to go down that slope. I mean it was an open invitation for danger. Unconvinced by their verbal assurances, I stood at the edge of the slope unsure of my next course of action to reach the safety of the lower altitudes. After long deliberation, I refused to take the plunge and instead chose to come down that slope in the cable car and wait for them at the cafeteria. The embarrassment? Only the injured came down by the cable car. It took me a while to convince the guys manning the cable car station below that the only bruised entity in that car was my ego and nothing else. I sat in the comfort of the cafeteria and nursed a cup of hot chocolate, wondering how the rest of the day would play out.

After they had come down the slope, the husband sought me out and immediately yanked me out to the original training slope and went to work on my technique. In his opinion, for some reason, he likened me to a near finished product that required only a few final touches while in reality, I was nothing more than a lump of raw material. He suggested a few changes to my posture, push and two solo slides down the slope later, declared for the second time that I was ready.

We then proceeded to take another cable car up a second mountain side. This ride was much longer than the previous one and though I wouldn't exactly call it a tall peak, there was a board warning people of low flying aircraft. You know that I was making that last part up. But it was much taller than peak no. 1 and the gathering darkness didn't do anything to ease my growing apprehensions. I stood at the edge faced with the cold logic that I still did not know how to ski in spite of their coaching efforts. That was when the teacher, in the ultimate gesture of ski-kindness, offered to "guide" me down; which would mean holding on to his hips while he skied down the slope slowly. I meditated on the offer and what it held. Yes, it was a risky proposition alright. Not to mention the prospect of holding on to, in my opinion, a sensitive part of a man's anatomy. Yet, it would give me the once chance to get bragging rights till it is my turn to keep my grandkids amused as they prepared for bedtime. Moreover, who knows if life, the way I knew it, would hand me yet another chance to actually come out to rural Japan, in winter, with strong enough limbs and willing teachers. So I decided that it was worth the risk that it came laced with.

Thus began our slow descent in what was clearly a very embarrassing posture. While I may not be a champion skier, I can hold my fort when it came down to the art of clinging on to dear life under extenuating circumstances. I held on to him in a fashion that could have made him turn blue from lack of circulation and his wife green with jealousy. We had made good progress and things were going fine till about half way point. Emboldened by the fact that I hadn't fallen down, he increased the pace by just a notch and I took a nasty fall right away. If there is a second purpose to the ski blades, besides aiding motion, lending balance or whatever they are supposed to offer, it is that they deny the learning skier a good, comforting fall. Robbing the beginner of any bodily grace that may be possible in a moment already laden with enough insult and potential injury. Right after the fall, my body and the blades held diverging flight paths, each hindering the other's progress. My right knee, by virtue of being attached organically to the rest of my body and synthetically to the ski blade, wasn't entirely decided on which side to take, and got twisted badly in the process. I came to a rest in a heap of metal and extremities.

As my hosts and a few skiers by gathered around to extricate me from my new found intimacy with powdered snow, the question foremost on my crowded mind was: What are we doing for dinner? For, my faculties had started coming back by then and I registered hunger, cold and pain, in that order. The ski blades were made to come off, tenacious snow was patted off my hair and then began damage assessment. Except for the right knee that was paining (but not swollen), I was found to be OK. I was helped on to my feet as getting up on my own efforts sent jabs of pain. I did a MK Gandhi-on-his-way-to-prayer and came hobbling down the slope on one knee, with one arm around the husband's shoulder and the other around the wife's.

The rest of the story was a series of exchanges between us - their expressing their bad feeling about making me go through this and my assuring them that all is well. I was sitting in the rear of the car, legs stretched and the twisted knee resting on the seat as we sped towards the nearest Pakistani-Indian restaurant. My second attempt at skiing also had, in equal measure, elements of drama, bodily harm and culminated in a sumptuous meal.

All I wanted to say was: Had a minor ski injury in 2004, did fine. But it was a very long weekend here...

Taking a bite out of cricket

Be it swinging opponent batsmen out or losing improbable matches, be it a doping scandal or ball tampering, match fixing or dead coaches, (or even medical conditions better left unspoken) leave it to our friendly neighbors to the west to keep the otherwise boring world of cricket interesting and spicy. The latest episode in their continuing saga is bite-gate.

Enough has been said and written about this incident. So here's a crack at the many headline opportunities and possible excuses instead.

Headline opportunities:

Afridi: Still hungry for cricket!

Afridi leaves his mark. On the ball.

Afridi bites more than he can chew

Afridi has a taste for bowling

Afridi goes ball-istic

Afridi has a ball. In his mouth.

Afridi bites the ball-et

Perth ODI comes to a ball-biting finish

Top Afridi excuses:

" I needed the protein"

" The Duke tastes better"

" So biting the ball is not on?"

" This isn't the Vicco Vajrdanti ad shoot?"

" I wanted my salt fix"

" The ball started it first!"

" But Ramiz keeps calling it the cherry?"

" I blame Lalit Modi!"

" Hey! I'm just a teenager learning by mistakes!"

" Relax! I'm sure it is halal."

Feel free to add more in the comments.

Dedication

"A very good morning to my fellow students and esteemed members of the staff. My topic for today is dedication. The dictionary says dedication is..."

Thus would begin nine out of ten speeches in our school assembly. But y'all know that we do things differently around here. And also, dedication is not the topic of this post either. Well, not that dedication, at least. I need to get something off my chest and here is where I usually do it. Specifically, I'm here to rant against a clear and present danger. A growing menace that is happening somewhere even as I write this.

Picture this:

A terrible compere, complete with a pasted plastic smile, hands repeating artificial gestures and slurred Tamil pronunciation. Someone who has possibly gotten this assignment based solely on her relationship with the programming head or someone important in the channel. I mean, this is non-primetime TV compering that we're discussing here and it is not an acquirable skill and definitely not an art. Her ability(?) is to engage in phone conversations with complete strangers who are on the line because, um, they don't have a life? (The ones that go 'naan aaru varushama try pannren, innikki dhaan madam kedachudhu' and rush to introduce to the world their extended family.) And play songs that they request. Not a bad way to make money, mind you. After all there are all these morons out there, trying earnestly to get their time under the sun and an appropriate number of such plasticomperes out there, trying to cash in, thanks to Pepsi Uma.

My issue is not so much with trying to resuscitate an outdated idea of calling in for a song to die a respectable death. neyar viruppam (Listeners choice) on Vividhbharathi, a program wherein Arakkonam Prabha, Jyothi, Suresh and Kaveripakkam Raja and Gopi (made up or real) sent in their respective requests for a particular song that was played, had some relevance given the times. The call-in programs on TV in the day and age of internet, ipod and youtube are as appropriate as this:

(Image courtesy: www.wired.com)

But the marketing gurus today see some more juice to be squeezed out of this and so be it. My real problem is with this thing that is called dedication of the song. After the customary gushing, pointless banter and the song selection between Ms. Plasticompere and Mr. I've-time-to-kill comes the killer question:

"Sooberana song choose pannirukkeenga. sollunga Sekar, indha song-a yarukku dedicate panna aasa padreenga?" ("Who do you like to dedicate this song to?") I cringe.

"En friend Babu-kku indha saanga dedicate pannren madam." Sekar, without skipping a beat, announces to the rest of the world that his friendship with Babu is somehow captured in its entirety by a romantic number.

Ilayaraja, Vali and ManiRathnam combine their intellect to come up with a song that Mr. Sekar feels is a right choice to dedicate to Mr. Babu. Is there a more ideal example for the "kadai thengaya eduthu vazhi pillayar-ku odaikkardhu" proverb? Or, more appropriately, as Goundamani would put it, "Dei naaye nee enna da panna?" (English: Never mind, it ain't gonna sound half as funny.)

Song dedication is the TV equivalent of a hallmark card and should be stopped. At once. Sekar might as well say "I'm capable of nothing myself. And that is perhaps why I have the time to dial a number a million times to request for this song and dedicate it to you." Even an off-key rendition of the same song for a friend (in private space) amounts to some sort of dedication. But this? No.

Are my nerves, frayed by Sekar and plastic queen, allowed to rest when the song finally comes on? No. That is when the SMS messages start getting displayed at the bottom of the screen in a marquee. TV's answer to twitter. It is 2300 hrs and the messages are coming in thick and fast:

Sai, overhwhelmed by love, declares "Hai Kavi, i luv u da"

Naser, ever alert to the time of the night goes, "Farhana, gud nite"

"Hema, how r u?" asks Suresh, in need of urgent information regarding the well being of his sweetheart.

M/s. Sai, Naser and Suresh, I speak on behalf of most of TamilNadu when I say, "Shut the beep up! And good night!"

Somebody had to say it out aloud

Let's face it. Bangladesh is an ordinary team. Everybody knows that. From Shakib Al Hasan to Jamie Siddons to the most offended Bong cricket fan and journalist. Enough of the politically correct answers that get bandied about like "We respect the opponents" or "They can be a strong team at home" etc. that not only sound hollow but also make for bland reading. Much like the standard issue "...cordially solicit your august presence to grace the occasion of..." on wedding invitations that no one cares to read while all that is meant is "Wedding. Please come, bless and dine." May be not that nice looking, but that is what is truly meant.

The Bangladeshis have been (knocked) around long enough and if their results are anything to go by, what Sehwag told was the truth, as it were. Even if we lose this test, and as an Indian fan, I really hope we don't, what Sehwag has just said will remain true at least for the foreseeable future.

His press conferences, just like his innings, makes one look forward to something worthwhile.

Vignettes from a Chennai holiday

Mylai Karpagambal mess

There are somethings in life that should not change. One among them was the ambience, or character, of the Mylapore Karpagambal mess. The place, in its previous avatar, could be aptly described as a hole in the wall. Quite literally. Combined with its great food and a start studded customer list, the place was etched into Chennai-ites hearts. Complete with its unclean interiors and non-functional wash basins. On my regulation visit there this time, I walked right past a brightly lit facade where once stood the dour entrance. My brain simply refused to map this bright thing to the MKM image in store. In fact I crossed the road and scanned the row of buildings and not until I saw the nameboard did I completely believe that it was indeed MKM. Wearing bad make up. Thankfully, the food is still good, although I felt their avial could do with a lot more of vegetables. Service remains old world style too with unlimited access to the sambhar bucket and chutney containers. Yet, somehow it didn't feel right. But there is hope. The interiors, in spite of the face lift, are 'getting there' and it is only a matter of time before the wash basins get assistance from buckets of water and floating steel tumblers. I want my old MKM back, dammit!

Grand Master

While I was tucking into my 3rd keeravadai, doused with ample quantities of chutney and sambhar, Mr. and Mrs. Vishwanathan Anand and a few others parked themselves at the next table. Which explained why the MKM folks were guarding that table (in the A/C section, of course) like a fortress when we had entered. The greatest move that night was when we, as in self and Anand, got served our respective onion ravas by the same bare hand off the same plate. Shortly followed by our respective adais. But for his excellence in a certain board game, there was little that separated me and the master that night.(He he.) But the grandest master that night was inside the kitchen, making all the right moves!

Fast and curious

A long standing wish that got fulfilled - my maiden Shatabdi trip. Saved myself a lot of time, but the hype surrounding the quantity and quality of on-board food was completely deconstructed by Messrs. Southern Railways themselves. Maybe it was a one off day, but food quality was worse than the average pantry car stuff. I won't say that the portions were small but I could tuck into a full size home cooked lunch right after I got off the train. I'll take the never ending procession of snacks on the Brindavan/Lal Bagh anyday. Whatever the shortcomings on the culinary front, they were offset by the thrills provided by the lady seated across. Apparently, she was returning to Bangalore after attending a funeral in Chennai, the details of which she was passing on to various people by phone whenever she got enough signal strength. The exciting part was this: "I was told that it was the nurse that pulled the oxygen supply.... Hello? Hello? Hmmm" and hung up. Damn the network!

The great Indian (Railways) berth trick

Stranded in Mysore on the eve of 2010's first working day. Like the thousands around, absolutely need to be in Chennai the next morning. Except, our tickets are waitlisted - 179 and 180. In other words, not a chance. A few discrete phone calls are placed to 'someone with pull' and in an hour, we are informed that our seats will be confirmed and are asked to board coach S6. Fast and easy, maybe a tad too easy. Train pulls into the Bangalore station and we get ousted by unruly people only because they actually hold tickets for the seats that we were "assigned"! Just as we prepare to spend the night crouched by the wash basin (and the toilet), the TT provides us a berth in exchange for a smiling Gandhi. San'TT'a is late by a good week and is in black. But he did bear us gifts.

3 idiots

After getting the "You haven't watched 3 idiots?" with an exaggerated roll of eyes from everyone a hundred times, we bit the bait. Sathyam was sold out for Monday night 10:30. Chennai has changed! Nearby Devi had a few for 10:30 and the theater was nearly full. With the "family" crowd, mind you. There was even a mami in madisaar in attendance. I tell you, Chennai has changed! Verdict: A well marketed, over-hyped, ordinary Hindi movie. By the way, is it just me or is Kareena Kapoor really a man? Oh well. All in all, I must admit that it was good time pass, I mean the whole movie, theatre, night show package. P.S: I've now picked up Five point someone.

The Corporation

I had lost my birth certificate and needed one re-issued. After collecting the pre-requisite letter from the hospital, I proceeded to try my luck at the local corporation office around noon. Three people, a lady and two men, manned the counters, devoid of any indications of what was being dispensed there by way of services. Gingerly approaching the first guy, I asked if it was the right place for my requirements. No response. Absolutely none. He had the air of someone busy splitting atoms and I left him continue his task. The girl voluntarily pointed me to the third guy who bore an uncanny resemblance to a seal. He was visibly uncomfortable in his shirt, the middle button of which was threatening to strike work any minute. He entered my details into the system with pudgy fingers and began swivelling in his chair, staring intently at the monitor. Roughly three minutes had passed in this manner when I asked him if he could see my records. Without batting an eyelid, he goes, "I haven't told you anything yet." Quite a stunner of a reply, I'm sure you'll agree. After another minute elapsed, he broke his silence saying that my records weren't in the system. Solution: "Wait until 4 pm when either Panneer or Selvam will be here to let you know what needs to be done." At which point I turned around, drove home and boarded my flight back that night. I tell you, Chennai hasn't changed one bit!

My Korean Guru

My interactions with Korean taxi drivers are very minimal. The doormen at the hotel give the driver the destination. Most of them know where my office is and once we leave the hotel, the 40 minute drive is spent in near silence. And since I have resolutely refused to pick up any Korean, the only exchanges are the mutual Thank you-s and nice day-s said while alighting. This isn't the usual case however elsewhere. I really respect that profession where timings are so critical - be it a call taxi driver in Chennai or someone piloting A380s. Also, numerous drivers have made sure that I was at the station or airport on time more times than I can count now. I also feel bad for the tribe of drivers in general (Thank you Mr. Arvind Adiga!) what with all that waiting, negotiating through bad traffic and putting up with someone else's schedules. I have single handedly led to abnormal blood pressure conditions in many drivers across many lands. And hence, fuelled partly by guilt, even if I'm not in the mood for a conversation, which is when I get the most loquacious drivers, I tend to be polite and try to hold up my end of the conversation to the extent possible. But with my seriously limited Korean vovabulary (I still haven't picked up the word for "vegetarian", usually my first word in any language) I am saved even that trouble. Moreover, in Korea, as I'm always catching up on lost sleep, I'm not quite risen on the morning taxi ride and remain only clinically alive, sprawled out on the rear seat.

All that changed with my recent trip to Korea. On the first morning, a frail old man with his greying hair neatly parted and combed back, pulled up to the portico of the hotel in his beat up Hyundai. The doorman poked his head through the window and informed my destination. Which is when I heard a raspy, "Oph kors oph kors! I know." from within the cab. Instinctively I knew this could mean prtotracted conversations. Sure enough, as he was slipping into the traffic and I was slipping in to my "clinically alive" state, Mr. Lee, as I learned from the id card, looked into the mirror at me and asked, "Are you high crass gentreman?" As far as ice breakers go, this one worked like a power hammer on an ice cube. I quickly checked if someone else was riding in the cab. No, it was a question for me and a tricky one at that. Apparently what was quite obvious to me, wasn't quite so to Mr. Lee and I replied in the negative with what I thougt was a pleasant smile at that hour in the morning. Mind you, I had just gotten off a red eye flight.

I'm not sure if it was my smile or the answer that encouraged his second question, "You speekku Korea langvechi?" Relieved at a more straightforward question and the prospect that the gaping canyon that stood between us on the language front could quell further exchanges and actually let me go back to sleep, I again replied in the negative. As a subtle message, I even halved the previous smile, and adjusted myself to a more sleep-conducive position.

By this time, we were firmly stuck in the middle of the usual Seoul traffic snarl and barely moving. Good, more sleep! Right? Wrong.

"Okkkay! From hoteru to ophhice - 40 minute. I am Korea langvechi teacher, you student." I opened one eye, only half believing what I had just heard. Mr. Lee was looking right at me with a "You heard me kid" kind of look. Unsure of how to handle this situation, I propped myself up against the seat. I could have played asleep, but I was far too awake to pull that off.

A la Jerry Seinfeld, I was still quickly thumbing through my rolodex of excuses for something convincing to go back to sleep when I heard him go "'Ann yang ha se yo' in Korea langvechi. Engrishu meaning 'How are you?'" And he started repeating that a few times and urged me to do the same after him. After about 5 repeats, when I had lost all hopes of getting some shut eye, he stopped. Instead, he held out his right hand. Making chopping motions, he started counting with his fingers, making me repeat that phrase 10 times, extending a digit everytime. I tamely repeated, enrolling myself for Korean 101.

Apparently not inclined towards a gentle introduction, he followed that up with "Hwa jang shil aidi it su yo? Engrishu meaning 'Where is the rest room?'" and started making his chopping right hand movements. There I was, in a car, speeding down Highway 1, asking out aloud to no one in particular, the directions for a restroom in Korean. Ten times. Looking at my bloodshot eyes, people that heard me would have thought that I was having a particularly bad hangover and seeking a place to throw up.

'Take me to a place' (driver instructions), 'How much is this?' and 'Can you give me a discount?' rounded off the first session. I was clearly out of breath from all the vocal exertions. Just as I sunk back into the seat, he announced that it was time for a test. What?! Less than 15 minutes into the impromptu class and I was already up against the first pop quiz?! The only time a language teacher tormented me this way was when I was trying to learn Hindi as a kid in Chennai. And that was atleast a good 20 years back.

He was rigorous in his methods. I tried my best to answer his various questions and just as I was starting to mix up the phrases, we arrived at the office. As I was getting off, he asked me whether he could pick me up that evening - a usual request from drivers. Again, instead of mumbling myself out of the situation, I heard myself say "7 pm". I had bitten into the Korean language bait. The evening's lessons, held under the dim cabin light was decidedly more romantic with phrases for'You are pretty' and 'You are cute'. At which point, I, ever so subtly, asked him for the phrase for 'I'm married' (Keron het su mida), which triggered a surprised glance in my direction. By the end of day one, I was ready to have this conversation with anyone: "How are you? Pleased to meet you. You look pretty. Oh, and which way to the rest room?" Although I wonder what kind of an impression I would leave on that person.

Anyways, my progress was not bad at all given my Korean vocabulary was only two words strong before - kim chi and bibim bap - two atrocities that I routinely subjected my digestive system to. The routine continued over the next 4 days. The second morning, I had transferred my knowledge from day one onto a sheet of paper. Encouraged by this, he had 2 sheets of notes for me that evening with even more phrases. The third morning was spent on numbers and that evening on the Korean alphabet for which he had prepared extensive notes. He even became considerate enough to give me advance notice on the big test for the fourth morning. It was a massive revision of all the phrases. He then made me read out aloud the alpha-numeric license plate off every single vehicle that we crossed. I barely managed not throwing up all over the back seat from motion sickness. (For the record, I don't try to work in a moving vehicle even if I'm hard pressed for time.)

I wasn't quite sure what kind of a gurudakshina I could give him on the day that I was leaving. He had mentioned that he couldn't take me to the airport that evening. So I had one of my colleagues, who was taking an earlier flight, cancel the taxi ride that he had booked to the airport, and go with my guru instead. At $120 it wasn't all that bad a deal, I'm sure you'd agree. I then took the bus to the airport, practising my fledgling Korean on unsuspecting airport staff en route to the boarding gate.

One way to look at this is that Mr. Lee had used this as an opportunity to get more business. While that is a valid argument, I would anyways have stuck with the first morning's driver through the 4 days. It just happened to be him that morning. Also, he wasn't trying to rip me off or anything. He was just being enterprising. A man trying to make more money, employing entirely clean methods. And in that process, I have stood to benefit immensely. A great win-win, if you ask me. The next time I go there, I'm so buying him a gift and calling him up for level II Korean langvechi!

Religion and food often cross paths with my life. And they have a rather complicated cause and effect relationship that I have stood to benefit from as observed here. Over the many run ins, like the one that I'm about to chronicle now, I have been made to realize that there are no free lunches, or dinners for that matter, and that every morsel is earned either by dint of hard and honest work or at least a close enough impression.

Sunday mornings. That time of the week set aside by most of humanity as the chosen one for rejuvenation. The Sunday morning is the poultice for a battered soul and a bruised body that have borne the brunt of the week past. The getting up late and then the lounging in bed long enough to skip breakfast and slide straight to a lunch, though routine, are tasks that are performed reverentially every week. Tasks that ensure that Messrs. Soul and Body are prepared to take on the might of the next week that looms larger with every passing hour. There are very few priorities that can break this sacred routine. One among them is a pursuit of bhakti. And a second is the lure of great food. Not listed in any order.

As a graduate student, I lived in a household of 3 guy (myself included) whose enthusiasm towards cooking varied from I-can't to I-won't. Since the dawn of history, mankind has chosen, for reasons not clear to me, a 7 day work week. And precisely for that reason, dividing 7 cooking turns between 3 reluctant people continues to be a mathematician's nightmare. Thus it came to pass, since it was nobody's turn to cook, every Sunday was a gamble in terms of being able to get a square meal. The law of the jungle kicked in and I had to outrun the slowest gazelle for satiating man's most primal of instincts - hunger.

The food Gods must have smiled on me for one fine morning in 2002, I got invited by a very orthodox friend of mine (an Iyengar fundamentalist, to be specific) to take part in the parayanam (chanting) of Sri Vishnu Sahasranamam (Lord Vishnu's 1000 different names). The deal was this: Get up at the ungodly (no pun) hour of 7-ish on Sundays and get a ride to the venue where it was being held that day. This would invariably involve bumming a ride by cramming into a recent graduate's Camry or a Corolla and ride to the hub. Even if one didn't have the address, all that was required was to park behind the last Camry or Corolla and follow the trail of parked Toyotas and Hondas to the house - the only place teeming with human activity at that time of the day. The place would be bursting with TamBrams of all sizes and colors, many of them in veshtis and jibbas to affirm their identity. The routine was fixed: 55 minutes of chanting followed by a 10-minute discourse on the burden of a verse from VSN itself. But the main draw, as with any Hindu ritual, was the mahaprasad (blessed food) that was available afterwards. The menu would be simple, nothing fancy. But some households took it very seriously and would prepare a sumptuous spread. Either ways, I wasn't complaining.

A word here on my religious inclinations wouldn't be out of place. I must have been 7 or 8 years old when my mother thought that it was not a bad idea to get me enrolled in a shloka class. While I don't question the intention, the only problem was that the class met every Sunday morning at 7-ish. Needless to say, after a few weeks, I dropped out. I was intimidated not by the complex shlokas themselves but by the well dressed girls and boys, who had obviously showered, that would turn up with a spring in their step while I, in stark contrast, dragged my feet to Ayodhya mandapam in West Mambalam, barely awake and trying in vain to look as showered as possible. Ever since, I have been careful to avoid religious exercises that started too early in the mornings or ones that didn't culminate in a hearty meal.

Nothing over the years had made me change my attitude and thus when my friend offered the invitation in 2002 I was initially cautious. They say that there aren't free lunches. And as much as I hate it, I accept that paradigm. Getting my Sunday lunch meant that I had to get up very early. But the effort was adequately rewarded. It didn't take me too long to weigh the getting up early part against chowing down food and decide in favor of the latter. Mind you, I would have already foregone my Saturday morning's sleep on account of cricket (somehow that never seemed to be a tough task). Thus began my Sunday routine which remained unchanged for the rest of my time in the US.

People attended the parayanam sessions with multiple motives. Yes, bhakti, good karma and the resultant warm fuzziness and a sense of fulfilment were all there in plain sight. But also around, barely camouflaged, were the furtive looks of eligible bachelors, recently armed with a MS Degree and a job, scanning the crowd for prospective partners and looking to move on to the next stage. Equally keen were the parents/uncles and aunts of eligible bachelorettes, scouting the guys and checking items off a mental list that would qualify them as "eligible" material. Also in attendance were people that had a solution to every known problem afflicting mankind at large, ranging from US foreign policy through the US housing market to the inevitable malaises troubling India and what exactly they would do to address them. And they would loudly make their point to one and all within earshot. Some would bring along their retired parents visiting them, who would in turn take back tales of the religious aspirations of the Indian diaspora in a distant, clean land. Students, in general, participated for food and networking - seeking that little push, and that good word while forwarding their resume to companies. Against this backdrop, I was clearly a misfit and stood out like a sore thumb. My primary motivation to attend, as pronounced earlier, was food. I could not recite VSN by heart. I relied on the printed version and yet ad libbed through the bulk of the text. Being still in school (a good 3 years shy of breaking into the eligible bachelor circuit), I never registered on the radars of the various mamis and mamas around. And yet there I would be, er, religiously, every Sunday morning, nursing sore muscles and joints from the exertions on a cricket field the previous day and playing catch up with the recitation.

My role in the proceedings would take on significance only after the recitation was over. In essence, I was like the first change bowler who comes on after the shine of the new ball has been taken away. I would be fully risen once the smell of food wafted in from the kitchen in preparation for the nivedhanam. Once the go ahead was given by the chief, signalling the end of the religious aspects of the day, I would come into my own. I will skim across to the food area, opening the closed dishes and working up my appetite while surveying the goodies that awaited us. I would appoint myself as the prasadam Nazi, trying to bring a semblance of order to the ensuing chaos. People, who have seen me in action on earlier occasions wouldn't question my authority. I would choose buddies as volunteers to man the various dishes, and I would myself oversee the distribution of a couple of dishes or play the role of a cop, coordinating the sea of people lunging towards the dishes. After doing this long enough to quell any sense of guilt or till the main dishes reached critically low levels (whichever happened earlier), I would then casually pick up a plate and join the lines that I had just been manning to fulfill the overarching goal of participation.

Looking back, I'm not ashamed about setting gastronomical goals in a spiritual event or the level of my participation itself. That was who I was and, truth be told, I haven't changed all that much from those days. And honestly, I did do something before I partook of the meal. One thing that used to baffle me was how hard worked professionals by the week could get themselves to prepare good food enough for about 50 people on their hard earned weekend. And I had an opportunity to get the answer myself when we were asked to host the parayanam in our apartment. And that is material for a separate post sometime.