Choke Choke Wheeez....Haaaalp! I Can't Swim!

Ever wonder where parental judgement comes from??? From Hugo's house of horrors I should think! Today I am hydrophobic, thanks to my dad's painstaking efforts to drown me in several water bodies, under the pretext of teaching me to swim.

Don't get me wrong here...My dad's my hero. A highly accomplished retired Colonel from the Army, he is a para commando, has scaled the south pole, excels at every possible sport, especially Golf, adept at driving most road vehicles, is a great cook, grandma's favorite son-in-law, funny like how, caring husband, super hero dad, ever ready to help friends and family, at 64, sports muscles to put 20 year olds to shame, greatly loved and admired, can light up any gathering with his humor and charm, one of my role models and one of my closest pals too.


Pa, unfortunately has zero patience with slow learners.


I was three years old. I was in my new lilac and electric blue open back swimsuit from "America". It also had a merry ocean scene drawn on it, some where on my tummy, with a yellow octopus, pink star fish and a white surf board splashing in the waves. I wasn't feeling as merry though. Perched precariously at the edge of the shallow end of the baby pool, I was staring at the blue water bob up an down in the silly square pit. There were other children my age in colorful "chaddies" and swimsuits, screaming their guts out, making life hell for their parents and instructors alike. I was soon going to join their ranks. Of course there were also some that were quite calm about being dunked in water. I am sure they grew up to be nerds.


My father was trying to look his jolliest best, all smiley and grinny, urging me to jump into his arms. "Jump Asha, pappa will catch you, see water is not deep at all, aa jaao jump..its nothing to be scared of". Yeah, right! I wasn't buying it.


I was standing indignantly sporting my best constipated look. I was mighty unhappy, and was making it known. Out of the blue, I was grabbed from behind, swept off my feet and hurled towards my dad! The next thing I knew, I was in water, splashing around, screaming my lungs empty, not taking kindly to buoyancy, climbing onto my dad in a desperate attempt to get out of water. The horrible horrible "Marker Uncle" aka lifeguard threw me into the water! These conspiring adults, I tell you!


That didn't go too well at all.


But my dad wasn't going to give up was he? He was a great swimmer, his son was a great swimmer, wife was an above average swimmer. No reason, why the daughter shouldn't be.


Oh yeah? Well think again!

Eight months later, in Elliot's Beach, Besant Nagar, Chennai, my dad, big brother and I are chilling , enjoying the sunset. Or so it seemed.

Little did I know, what the next fifteen minutes were going to be. We began to stroll, casually towards the water. My brother and dad were holding my hands, one each, flanking me from either side. Our casual stroll soon became a decisive march into the water, and instinct kicked in as a warning. I could almost see what these men were going to do, but it was too late to resist. Held by both arms, I was lifted and dunked repeatedly like a vulnerable tea bag into the salty waves. Splosh! Splosh! Splosh!....

I was held there to drink up, what seemed like all the sea water the planet had to offer. The few minutes seemed like eternity. Apparently the two men thought, forcing me to face my worst fear would somehow rid me of it. Noble thought, but no thank you, next time leave the thinking to someone else.

They were kind enough to drop me off in the shallows before carrying on with their fun and frolic in the water. Soaked to the skin, evenly smeared in sand, crying, also blowing snort bubbles out of my nose, I made my way home. I wanted my mommy!! Home was two minutes from the beach. Bawling, as I waded in through the house, I left a trail of sandy water and watery sand wherever I went. Needless to say my mum was shocked to see me come home looking like a tsunami survivor. And where were the men?

Sure enough, father and son learnt a lesson or two that day from mommy dearest, on dos and donts of teaching me to swim. Lesson one - QUIT.

In the years that followed, my family was going to come to terms with the fact that some people could just not swim.

There is a certain concept in genealogy called the "recessive gene theory", wherein the predominant genes of a certain generation are held back, and not passed onto the successive generation. (No seriously, I am not cooking this one up. Go "Google" it.)

In my case, clearly, the "happy in water" gene was held back. The biology talk aside, simply put I had zero aptitude for swimming. Nada!

Recently in Pattaya, the water sports haven, it was yet again established. I was the water sports geek. The water sports nerd. The uncool water sports person.

Under sea walking was hilarious actually when I think back. I was all geared to climb down into the water, when I panicked and climbed back. Refused to do it. Then, over come by guilt at having ditched the husband who was already down under, I decided to go for it. Once in water, I was holding onto the diver's fingers like it was my last hope of survival. He wasn't going to be able to use those fingers for anything for a while. I was also subjecting the poor man to a wide range of horrifying and dastardly facial expressions. I was contorting my face, wrinkling my nose, rolling my eyes, widening my eyes, puffing through my mouth, fainting a little and basically doing my best to let him know I was dying. Or at least I was sure I was going to.

I finally adjusted to the pressure levels and started breathing easy, by this time diver boy had wriggled out of my vice like grip and handed me over to my husband. "Here! You married the crazy woman, you get clawed!"

Later, I tried all else there was to try - para sailing, motor scootering, skiing, banana boating....
No happiness. Not one bit. Maybe a sense of accomplishment at having faced my worst fears, but no happiness.

I was wet most of the time, I couldn't breathe easy, I was almost drowned and nearly dead, my muscles were rigid from balancing and not falling into the water, my ears and nose were bubbling, my voice was hoarse from screaming whenever there was scope, my hair was a mess and I also payed for all this! No happiness.. maybe little bit. But I still hate water. Period.

It has been several years since anyone tried teaching me to swim or I volunteered to have myself drowned, but It doesn't stop me from owning a smashing black, blue and silver Speedo ;)

The swim suit that will never touch water.

Travelogue - Bangkok shopping

I love shopping. All forms of it. In a group, by myself, with a friend, for family, for a friend or for a friend's friend. Obviously, I enjoy it the most when the shopping is being done for me! For women, shopping works like chocolate! Chocolate and shopping, even better! Shopping can be the result of any reason. Shopping is not an outcome of necessity.

Now, shopping off the streets has its own flavor and zest! Mostly, I enjoy that more than shopping indoors. Most street markets, have a local flavor. Locals mill about in native clothing, local musicians sit around playing something fresh and melodious, small street-food stalls are interspersed with the shops and one can literally smell and see the flavors of the country as one shops. Occasionally stop, to discover a new taste, a new art form, new patterns, and new rates even!

Bangkok is a shopping maniac's paradise! Pretty much as in India, you will find street markets (a la Causeway, Hill road, Karol bagh, Fashion street, T Nagar) organised open markets, swanky malls, more malls and the government controlled local handicraft outlets.

In Bangkok one can really bargain! And the stuff is really good. That's the best part.

There are several malls and markets that I will probably touch upon later. My favorite destination is Suan Lum Night Bazaar, in South Eastern Bangkok. I make it a point to visit it every time and will continue to do so. I discovered it quite accidentally actually.

Suffering through a very dull presentation, during the post lunch sleepy session at a training committee conference, I sat in the absolute last row chatting up with an equally bored American. He was transferring photographs onto his laptop, while he told me about this fantastic "bazaar" that he'd shopped at the previous evening.

Soon we were nose deep into a road map of Bangkok, tracing the route from my hotel to the "Suan Lum Night Bazaar". He even told me what the taxi fare would be. By the end of the presentation, my plan for the evening was set.

The gentleman turned out to be the treasurer of the training committee. I felt a lot less guilty about planning my shopping during the conference then!

The bazaar supposedly open from 7PM to 7AM only, is two giant adjacent squares stuck together by a common lane. All along the three sides of one square, are the food stalls, seating in the middle of the square and a huge open air stage on the fourth side. Its a carnival. There is food and drinks, and usually a local music band performing live on the stage. What an ambiance.
The adjoining square is where all the shops are.

The bazaar is a matrix of rows and columns. A 10 by10 matrix I think. Colorful, bright and airy.

I went berserk the first time. And it wasn't much different the second and the third time :)

The silk sarongs, silk pants, blouses, scarves, skirts. The colors and patterns. I was salivating! I wanted it all! NOW!! Oh and the silk cushion covers, bed spreads, purses, bamboo lamps, baskets, wooden masks, brass Buddhas, elephant tooth-pick holder, lifestyle goods in the most aesthetic oriental designs, handicraft junk, incense sticks in million colors and smells, pretty shoes, bags, more clothes, exotic cosmetics, aroma salts, more bags in all shapes and sizes! Phew!! I HAD to have it all!!!!

What makes it even more tempting are the prices! You get more for less. You can talk to the vendors just with the calculator. They punch in their number, and you punch in yours. It just goes on till you both like what you see. And Indians are incorrigible bargainers anyway, so I am sure the Thai markets by now, know what they're up against (evil grin!!)

Its such a rush! So many shopping bags for so little money. It is my deduction, that the greater number of shopping bags you carry, the more respect there is for you as a shopper, amongst the vendors. They know you intend to buy if the rate is right. And so, bargaining gets even simpler towards the last lap of shopping.

The first time I shopped, I ended up with SO many shopping bags, a lady actually called me in and helped me put all the bags into a 2ft by 3ft large plastic carry bag. Bless her good soul! It was a lot easier just dragging the loot around like a carcass, than balancing close to twenty stuffed carry bags, a water bottle and a handbag in two tiny hands.

I was a little disappointed that the second and third time I couldn't be as crazy a shopper as I was the first time, but I left with a true shopper's promise, to be back with a vengeance.

Mumbai ka Auto

Autos are the best mode of public transport in Mumbai, after the local trains. They are quick, efficient and aggressive. Most perfect for Mumbai traffic. Inside an auto one feels like the King of the Road. Every other vehicle yields to the auto's sly tricks and stunts. The auto never stays in one place long enough. No traffic jam can hold it still, it will always twist and turn and meander its way through stalled or moving traffic and be the first to zoom out of a mass of vehicles! So liberating! 'Course, had I been in any of the vehicles neighboring an auto, I would have a different story to tell. But that's not important.

The auto imbibes its spirit from the auto wala! The auto walas in Mumbai, are rock stars. They are intelligent, hard working and extremely conscientious. You can be new to the city and board an auto with no worry in the world of getting lost. You can be old to Mumbai and expect to discover quicker routes to getting to your destination. The auto wala will turn on the meter, take the shortest, most efficient, traffic-free route, without charging a penny more and/or making grumpy faces! Something quite alien to auto walas in cities like Dilli, Pune, Chennai and Bangalore! Especially Bangalore! I wish I could parcel auto walas from Bangalore to the Mumbai auto walas, for a crash course in etiquette and sense of duty.

Speaking of sense of duty. During the Mumbai floods, both in 2005 and 2004, and during the local train serial bomb blasts in 2006, one had to experience the service rendered by the auto wala community to really believe it.

When the public transport was worst affected and there was panic amongst people, autos continued plying till it was absolutely impossible to carry on in the rain water. During the bomb blasts, locals had stopped and busses were off the roads. There were thousands of people on the roads, with no mode of transport to avail. It was the autos that took on as many passengers as there was room for and dropped each one off to safety. Mind you, for no extra money. It was moving and inspirational to see such spirit.

There is a strange sense of pride and belonging amongst the people for its city, which makes Mumbai stand apart. There is no doubt that other metros, their culture and people have a long way to go before becoming a cosmopolitan city in the true sense, before becoming Mumbai.

Being a cosmopolitan city, is not merely about the standard of living, infrastructure, population and other such tangible statistics. Its about all of this and that little something more that Mumbai and its people have. The sense of oneness and pride, that gives them joy and hope to work towards a common mission of being happy as individuals, and as a people, amongst all the strife, rush, crowd, poverty, sorrows and day to day issues.

Mumbai, is the entertainment hub not only because it houses Bollywood, but because there is entertainment ingrained in every aspect of life in Mumbai! Definitely in autos too. While hailing an auto, most people would first mention their destination. We would first ask"Bhayya, radio hai? ".

Wizened to the needs of their clients, the default setting in most Mumbai autos, would be a powerful stereo system. In a row of autos, the one with the most interesting music would lure us in! Radio Mirchi would play and we would "dhin chik dhin chik dhin chik..." all the way home! Such joy!

In those days songs by Himesh Reshammiya, from the Salman Khan starrer 'Tere Naam' were a big hit. I absolutely loved the "Odhni odh ke naachoon"song from the movie. Apparently so did the auto walas. On several auto rides, the song has played and we never got tired of tapping our feet, bobbing our heads and singing along! The auto wala even honked to beat sometimes! Such camaraderie!

One evening, after a dreadful day at work, I got into the first auto that came along, and sullenly sat making mental notes of names to add to my "To KILL List". I was plotting on carrying a bazooka to work the next day to blow off some people from the face of the planet, better still drive a G10 over them and plaster them to the tarmac. I felt so morose and angry, I was sinking deeper and deeper into the seat, with tears welling in my eyes.

As if sensing my state, my fairy god mother, the auto wala cranked up the radio.

"Dekha hai pehli baaaaaaaar, Saajan ki aankhon main pyaaaaaar.....tanka chakan tanka chakan........" bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz "Click "
"Maine Odhni odhli yaaaar, ke dil pardesi ho gayaaaaaaa....dhin chak dhin chak dhin chak dhin chak...... "

Intuitively he stayed on the song, my favorite, our favorite! I was tapping my feet, bobbing my head, singing between sobs, we were zipping through traffic, the wind was in my hair, the ugliness of the day was left behind and life was back to normal again!!

I love the auto rides in Mumbai!

Takes Tree to Mango

The highlight those days, of summer vacations spent in Chennai, was plucking Mangoes in Grandpa's back yard cum garden - read tropical forest. What started out as being nurtured into a kitchen garden, grew up to be a cross between a mini Amazon(minus the Anaconda) , and a botanical garden.

It was a single handed effort by my Grandpa to convert a sandy backyard into this hybrid forest- exotic garden. Very commendable considering the harsh weather and water conditions in Chennai. For more than twenty years he had slogged over it.

There were the fruit trees that formed a vast canopy, the outermost layer - Coconuts and Mangoes, then the smaller fruit trees which were the secondary rung of foliage - Papaya, Chiku, Guava, Lemon, Curry leaf plants that were now small trees, on the larger trees were creepers and runners - Beans and small Melons, that made it quite difficult to tell the tree from the creeper! The sandy ground was taken over by flowering plants, Berries, kitchen spices and one solitary Pineapple bush. Sunlight always managed to streak in and the entire forest would glow Emerald and Gold! Amidst all of this were colorful little beetles and bugs, dainty butterflies, shiny snails, scurrying squirrels, the ever color-changing chameleons, crows, sparrows, the odd pet cat and a stray dog. It was quite an assortment.

As a little girl, I would wait to run out and walk through it, to be taken in by its enchantment.

It was the perfect stage for the unfolding of the "Mango plucking ceremony". In summers the Mango trees sprouted bunches of light yellow flowers, harbingers of the Mangoes that were coming! Grandpa's garden had close to eight Mango trees as far as I can remember now. Each of these would be laden with healthy, heavy, delicious smelling Mangoes! He would let some to ripen, and bring some down earlier.

My grandpa would easily tend to his garden and bring down the produce himself, but when the grandchildren were visiting, he would give them a little something to do and learn from. Most of my maternal cousins are boys, with only two other girls, besides myself. Until the age of seven or eight, I wasn't considered up to the task of climbing trees and it was mostly the boys that were the official nominees for the "Mango plucking ceremony". Boy! was i thrilled when my turn came.

My older brother, a cousin brother and I were to pluck Mangoes under Grandpa's able supervision.

The boys stripped off their shirts to escape stains and got into their shorts.
I stripped off my fear of the first organised tree climbing expedition and got into my shorts.

Once geared, we were led to the rear balcony that housed the ingeniously designed in-house tools. Grandpa the Metallurgist, had customised them all to suit his purpose and that of the garden's. There were hooked poles of various lengths, knives, crow bars, spades and sickles among others. Today we needed only the hooked poles. Carrying the longest pole and a foot-long knife, tucked into his dhoti at the waist, Grandpa led the way, resembling a chieftain marching his tribe down to battle. Between the four of us we had three poles of varying lengths with hooks or "kokkees" attached to the ends, and three large aluminium tubs to hold the loot in.

The trees stood ahead, tall, large and majestic. They were all more than twenty years old.

Two of us were to climb and one would stay on ground with Grandpa to run around, gather and deposit the Mangoes. The three of us took turns at ground duty and at climbing trees so all of us got a shot at each task and didn't tire. Grandpa, the chief presiding officer of the mission, of course decided who got to do what and when.

So, up I went. The terrain had its hurdles. The tree trunk was coarse, there was sticky tree sap flowing out of cracks in the bark, that I had to avoid, and there were half an inch large red ants all over! Grandpa shouted out instructions when he saw us faltering. A foot here and a foot there, and slowly I got the hang of it (pun intended). The climb had to be slow, steady, deliberate and calculated. Some branches were weaker than the others. One had to be cautious about distributing one's weight between the footholds on different branches.

Also very frightening were the columns of red ants marching along. The ultimate scary moment being when you caught an extreme close up of red antennae, feet and all of it on a leaf/branch precisely four millimeters from your left eyebrow! Breathing comes to a halt, muscles tense up, and Mangoes are forgotten.

Of course ants are much too purposeful to abandon their chartered route and pounce on neighboring creatures for cheap thrills, but one can never be too sure right???? Right???

Mangoes hung in ones, twos or threes. Once I was perched close enough, a hook of suitable length was raised to me from the ground. I had to then balance on my feet, hang on with one arm, take control of the hook with the other and steer it towards the Mango(es).

It was not just pulling viciously at it once the hook was around the Mangoes. There was a method in that too. The hook had to be placed slightly above the mangoes, from where the stem came out, and tactfully with the right amount of force the Mangoes had to be tugged at such that the skin was not scraped or disturbed.

Caution was to be maintained when several Mango bunches hung close to each other. One had to be very careful to not bring down the raw ones with the ripe ones. The ripe ones were preferred over the raw Mangoes, and the latter where usually left behind to ripen. There was a backup plan anyway. In case we brought down a Mango that was not ripe enough, it was made into pickles and chutneys :) Super combination with curd rice. Such joy!

And so from one mango laden branch to the other, we would move deftly and carefully, getting better with each attempt. The sight of the mango filled tub on the ground below, gave an immense sense of accomplishment. By now the tension had lifted and we were relaxed enough to enjoy the breeze redolent with Mango aroma!

The chap on the ground would have his own set of tensions too. He had to ensure he caught the Mangoes and broke their fall as far as possible. Though the beach sand in the garden was soft enough to not do much harm, the Mango's own ripe weight and momentum of fall, would split it open upon impact. Nothing displeased my Grandpa more.

Some Mangoes were left behind in the trees for the squirrels, parrots and crows. Grandpa was an intelligent gardener and knew that the Eco balance was needed to keep the garden happy.

The descent was trickier than the climb, but the job was done, and there was no fear of the unknown.

Our little procession marched back indoors triumphantly, with my Grandpa commenting on how with each year the number of Mangoes were reducing.

All that mattered to me was that I had brought down several of those, that I was going to feast on them soon, that I was richer by knowledge and experience, that I had been a part of Grandpa's much sought after Mango Plucking Ceremony.

Locked Out in Blue Flowery Shorts

It was a lazy Saturday morning. I rolled over in my bed and gazed absently. My Andheri flat was bright with the sunlight bouncing off the white marble flooring. "Bright Andheri" flat. Oxymoron don't you think? The eight feet long pink curtains shone and swayed happily in the morning breeze, resembling flowing streams of freshly churned strawberry milk shake. Through the open window, that was most of the wall, I saw the white and grey pigeons bobbing about near the green and yellow money plant, behind them was the powder blue sky .....most surreal..most perfect! It was heavenly being snuggled up in bed, soaking in the beauties of a perfect morning!

I trotted out humming to myself, blissful and content. Being on the fourth floor, and built for great light and cross ventilation, the apartment was as breezy as ever. I was enjoying the wind in my hair and did a little ballet all the way to the front door. One of my best buddies was staying over the weekend, we had plans and the day ahead looked great. The morning crossword would be the cherry on the icing.

So I go out the front door, stoop to pick the paper, shift my weight from foot to foot, and skimming through the headlines, slowly turn to see the giant door charging at me with all that the wind had in it. BANG!!! In about a split second the wind had swung and slammed the door shut on me, clicking the automatic Godrej lock in place.

It took me a moment to register what had happened. The gravity of the situation sank in. Very slowly. I took stock of the situation. I was locked out of my home in a worn flimsy white tee, dark blue flowery shorts exposing two and a half weeks of unwaxed hairy legs, wind tousled shaggy hair, bathroom slippers and a threateningly increasing urge to pee.

Thank you my creator. I was not only locked out of my home, but also out of my dreamy Saturday morning. Rather nightmarish I should say. For immediate attention, my "working speedily" mind processed two priorities. One, find place to pee. Two, get the door opened.

Priority one. Two options, I could go to one of the neighbors, introduce myself and plead permission to use the restroom and be laughed at for the rest of my stay in that apartment complex OR ....OR.....OR...go to the easily accessible terrace just one floor above mine. Option one required too much explaining and trampling of self esteem. I took the aerial route.

The terrace was a soccer field. The sun shone on every square inch and there seemed to be no hiding place. I was standing in the middle of the vastness clawing my shorts like a scruffy urchin. There were the white pigeons that were looking too. It was a tough decision to make.

And so, on that glorious Saturday morning I eased myself in the bright expanse of the chip tiled terrace floor. It was peaceful, clean and liberating. The gratification brought a smile to my face.

That done, I bounded back the stairs to face the large, unforgiving front door. I had to get keys. My set was on the other side, duplicates were with a cousin three hours away, and the flat owner was in another district! Several ideas swam through my head. I even considered hanging down the terrace and swinging myself in through the large windows. Finally I decided the best solution had to involve minimal public interaction and threat to life.

I took the lift down to the ground floor, called out sheepishly to the security several times. Fortunately he appeared soon enough. Not sure how to react to scruffy looking fourth floor female occupant in little clothing, he studied the walls and staircase railing for a few seconds. Then I recounted the situation in one quick breath and requested for a key maker to be brought over at the earliest possible.

He disappeared quickly, relieved that our awkward little meeting was over. Back on the fourth floor, I plonked on the steps and read the Saturday Times. The root cause of all the mess. The crossword stared at me seductively. There was nothing to write with, and my fingers were itching to put the words down. My ears pricked up at every sound in the lift shaft. I waited and waited for the key man.

After thirty minutes of reading the paper, playing on-the-spot created one man staircase games, occasionally popping out the terrace door to scare the pigeons, and reading some more paper, the two men finally arrived. Security walah dropped him off and hurried away. Key man quickly got to work. After an agonizing twenty minutes, cold, hungry and eighty five rupees short I was inside my home!!! It never felt sweeter! I quickly called the usual suspects to share details of the traumatizing episode. Mother and close buddies.

The friend was fifteen minutes from my home, and of course I told her how incredibly lucky she was to be landing after the worst was over.

Soon she called to say she was at the ground floor but that the lift wasn't working. Now, this friend had a slow healing ligament tear in her left knee. Managing four flights of stairs wasn't going to be easy. She called again. Talking on my cell phone, I stomped out of the door, thinking to myself how the lift was perfectly fine when the key man came, and that he must have not shut the door properly.

I was two paces away from the door when I froze in my tracks. The lift carriage chimed open at the fourth floor and the great wooden door slammed shut behind me!

For the second time in two hours I was stranded locked outside of my home in precious little clothing! I mean this was a conspiracy. Man and his unnecessary inventions. Automatic door locks! Whoever would have wanted that I wonder! Actually, I just couldn't come to terms with JUST how stupid I was being that day. It must have been the overwhelming natural morning beauty and all that jazz! Thank God, the world is less beautiful on normal days.

And so for the second time I stared in disbelief at the door. It was better this time though. I had a friend to while away time with, a tested and tried solution to open the door, and no urgent incoming nature calls. Within half an hour we were yet again facing each other. The "KEY MAN and the master slammer of doors". Sure enough, he put his super powers to use, vanquished the door and made off with another eighty five.

Yes, there have been several friendly suggestions and jibes since then. Hang an extra key around your neck, hide one under the door mat, leave one with the neighbor and so on. Of course I did none of that.

That Saturday, I simply sent a menacing mental message to the door. Shut me out again and you will be unhinged, cut up in planks and sold by the kilo in Crawford market. I have never been locked out since.

Therez a Tropical Forest in the Backyard

From where I was perched, I got an aerial view of a green canopy of intertwined branches and leaves. From somewhere deep within, white smoke was steadily spiraling upwards. Visually, it was very 'Last of the Mohicans". A little native Indian village, sending out smoke signals to neighboring tribes.

Only, it was my 94 year old grandfather boiling water in a large aluminum cauldron over an indigenously designed brick chulha . The dried garden leaves and twigs used to feed the fire were kicking up quite some smoke. This had been a customary practice in recent winters at my Grandparents' place in Chennai. Those who know Chennai, would also know it never really gets cold there. But when the weather is less warm than usual, a little hot water for daily chores, certainly doesn't hurt.

In the late 80s and early 90s, I spent quite a few summer vacations with my maternal grandparents. I was both terrified and curious about these trips. Terrified, as my grandpa was a total disciplinarian, a total tough task master with set notions of right and wrong. I being the youngest of the cousins, was the easiest victim to pick on. Curious, as the stay was always a wholesome, heterogeneous mixture of activities that, as an after thought I think have been both fun and educational.

My grandfather or "Appa" as we all know him, is the senior most member of the family and quite a personality at that. He is an animated storyteller, is widely traveled and has a penchant for unconventional humor. He was a stickler for good health, physical exercise, yoga, and alternative medicines. He still is. We would look forward to those sessions about experiences from his childhood days, life of a Brahmin boy in the Kerala villages, schooling in those days, days of his career as a metallurgist with TATA Steel, his visits to foreign shores, the people, the food, religion, changing socio economic scenarios and so on. His pet subject though is "Vedanta".

All family members, at least once in their life time, have attended "Chinnaswami's" Vedanta lectures. Appa would speak for hours on philosophies from the Vedas and Upanishads, from the Bhagvad Gita, concepts of the cosmic universe, the Aatman, the Brahman and Karma. When I was younger I would keep nodding faking my best attentive look, fighting to keep my eyes open, and stifling yawns.

So that's where I got trained to survive three hour long lectures at B School. Hmmmmm...

On a more serious note, I have pretty much gotten hooked onto Vedanta now and feel deeply blessed to have been initiated to it early enough in life. Discipline, both physical and spiritual is tough initially, but always necessary. Today, I am sold to Appa's teachings.

Appa is also passionate about gardening and his gardening tools, that he makes himself. It is well known that he turned the barren, beach sand-filled garden area surrounding his apartment into a tropical garden of sorts. In the early days he faced quite some opposition from neighbors concerned about the limited Chennai water being used to grow plants. Now of course, we all know they are quite thankful. Not only in his own backyard, Appa is said to have also planted Neem trees in and around the Besant Nagar Area. Self imposed mission to "greenify" sandy hot Besant Nagar. Very selfless. Very brave.

The backyard had an assortment of plants and trees growing in gay abandon. They were all healthy and productive. Mangos, Coconuts, Guava, Lemon, Pineapple(!), Papaya, Berries, Curry leaves, Hibiscus, Jasmine and other flowers used for prayer.

My favorite pastime was to graze around the garden, smelling, plucking and eating the leaves and fruits. Something passed on to me by my mother. She did that a lot too, as a kid. The ultimate thrill was my broom stick bow and arrow set. I would sneak up behind unsuspecting chameleons and shoot blunt arrows at them. Some would scuttle away like all hell was breaking loose, some would hop a few paces and some would just roll their eyes! "Humans!!" They seemed to be exclaiming.

The ultimate rush was watching them change colors. Sometimes they could be really repulsive to look at though, especially when they were between changing shades. The garden was full of them in all colors and sizes. The large ones were mini dinosaurs really. Red, Orange, Yellow, Browns, Black and combinations of all of the above. Once I saw a pitch black one with a single bright vermilion streak running through the middle from head to toe. Pretty designer. And then another that turned from a golden brown to beet red and back to a dull orange!

There were other attractions too. The upstairs neighbor bred a huge family of pet cats and dogs. It was always a pleasure to run up and play with the furry chaps. I love animals and the felines are my personal favorites. The oldest cat was Dolly. A golden brown pudgy tabby with one bad eye. Since the main entrance to Appa's home was always ajar in those days, we would invariably be visited by one from the cat family. Mostly Dolly. She was the senior most, she took the liberty. With folds of fat bulging under her lustrous coat, she would waddle through the house in a slow steady gait, finding her way to the garden through sofa legs, couches, footwear and people.

It was a pleasure watching her stalk little yellow butterflies, crouching in the green grass, and attacking only to miss. A la Nat Geo tigress hunting a pack of deer.

I once brought home a crab, from the Besant Nagar beach, which was two minutes by walk from the house. I had scooped him up with the wet sand he was spread out on and held him between both palms. He made no protest whatsoever. The occasional slipping of the sand from between my fingers, did lead to some activity between my palms that tickled the life out of me. But I survived. My well-meaning intentions of adding to the diverse flora and fauna in the backyard, were thwarted, when my mum ordered me to leave it back. Apparently the crabby kinds needed to be close to sea water to survive. Okay, i didn't know that.

And so, crab and I walked back to Besant Nagar beach.

The animal kingdom must find humans very arbit.

My take home for the day was that, If a creature was not already inhabiting an area, without your assistance, then it probably shouldn't be there.

There were also these little challenges that Appa threw at us. Once he challenged me to weave a Coconut tree leaf. The weave that was used to build thatched roofs. He demonstrated once and left me with the warning that the job needed skill and patience. I was eager to prove to my grandfather that I had grown up and was a little less stupid than he thought me to be. I got the weave right in my very first attempt. It was exhilarating!! I was awarded ten rupees for the feat that I treasured like a souvenir for several days. Then of course greed took over.

The ceremonies of ceremonies, was the Mango plucking ceremony :) At the age of 70, Appa could climb not only Mango trees but also the tall and treacherous Coconut trees. My brother and cousin brothers would try one by one, with constant ebbing and encouragement from Appa. I was sent up Mango trees too! It was great fun. The Mango ceremony deserves a blog of its own!

Food is an integral part of a celebration and summer vacations were nothing short of one. It was truly incomplete without my Grandmum's simple, healthy and yummy food! Keerai Molakootal, Saambaar, Mor Kootan, Avial, Olan, hot idlis with lemony coconut chutney and paper crisp dosas with Molaga Podi! Her name is "Annapoorni", which literally means "the Goddess of food grains in Indian Mythology". She sure has lived up to her name! We call her "Ammai". Ammai also has the uncanny knack of finding lost items. She will not rest till the missing item has been found. One would have forgotten about it, but she would still be gathering information on its last known location, appearance and dimensions.

Almost twenty years since, the pace has definitely slackened around Appa and Ammai's home, but the spirit still remains. The plants have thinned down in numbers, but the tropical forest is still as mysterious. Dolly and Co. are long deceased, but the countless little creatures flitting in the garden still remind me of her cuddly self and her hunting antics. The beach has several little descendants of the golden crab I carried home and back, and the occasional chameleon that I pass by still rolls its eyes at me.

Sigh! What wonderful days they were of being a child, of discovering, of learning, of making mistakes and still having fun. Of being nurtured by the love of our elders, of our families in ways that we didn't understand then, but are thankful for today.

I guess in some way or the other we all continue to be children forever and thank God for that.

Four Men Movies That Are Not Funny.

What is it with Bollywood movies nowadays??? So many with a bunch of boys faking comedy. The same boys regrouped in different bunches that too! Mighty confusing! Cant tell one movie from the next! Three years or so back, there were three heroes in every movie. Now its four. Really! Formulae when over used can sure grate.

So the current trend I am beginning to think is to throw in four men, fewer women, one singable club song, and promo trailers every five minutes on every other channel for three weeks in a row!

These men usually seem like they have no purpose whatsoever in life, are sporting the best of designer labels, and all four put together are more often than not, miserably unfunny. It is too much to expect a real story. The one that unfolds is invariably some Hollywood comedy totally sabotaged. Agreed, its too much effort writing sensible scripts, but what about the movie name? Must the movie name be mandatorily so arbitly unrelated to what the movie is about? Or is that fashionable?

Oh what the heck! People are still watching these movies right?! Whats the point raving and ranting about it?! I am thinking I might as well make some money and pen a multi starrer script too. Original and funny. Start a new trend. A comedy about five men.

Blogging The Block..

Was just wondering, if someone were writing a blog on going through a 'writer's block', what would it be called? Writer's blog or writer's block?!

Then again if he ends up writing a blog, he would'nt be suffering from a writer's block would he? And so, effectively, a blog on a block helps overcome the block.

Hmmmmmmmmmm..

The Big Picture

I had the good fortune of watching Blood Diamond today. Albeit a year after release, I am glad I watched it, for I feel shaken and my thoughts, stirred.

For those of you who haven't chanced upon the movie yet, Its a story set against the backdrop of the Civil war and illegal smuggling of diamonds in Seirra Leone. The story brings together the three protagonists, each from a different walk of life, each silently grieving loss. Loss of family, loss of purpose, loss of identity. The circumstances around them push them to being what they really want to be, doing what they really want to do and achieving what they desire. The movie ends on a positive note with the more progressive nations sitting up and taking notice, paving the way for the Kimberly Process to be set up against the illegal diamond trade.

The movie captures the struggle of the country and its people beautifully. The crux being exploitation of natural resources by the local rebels and traders of modern world consumerism, massacring the natives, turning adolescents into child soldiers numbed enough by the horrifying violence to shoot down one of their own, giving birth to refugee camps swarming with millions from broken homes, survivors that are scarred for life with the images of near and dear ones being slaughtered heartlessly.

This is a story of real people, of real tragedies that made me feel so thankful for where I am today. Thankful for the love and security that comes from having a family, a husband, the self respect and sense of self that comes from being educated and employed, merely the inner peace that comes from being safe. There are millions for whom the basic roti, kapda, makaan would seem like luxuries and here we are fretting over everyday traffic jams and housemaids that are never on time.

Probably we are so caught up with asking God to make tomorrow a better day, that we forget to feel thankful for all that has gone into making our yesterdays worth cherishing and our present peaceful enough to afford the time and inclination to worry, contemplate and plan a future.

Probably we take ourselves so seriously that we lose perspective of our place in the universe, we are so caught up with making things right, right now, that we lose sight of the big picture.

Hmmmm......