lalita larking

Because I love you

2008-07-01T12:16:00.001+05:30

She loved and trusted her. Her every step watched over, guided and protected. Then she grew up. Her every step watched over, guided and protected still, she chafed. There was the whole wide world to explore and learn. But she was hemmed in, penned and bound by a litany of you mustn’t, you shouldn’t, you can’t, it is not done.

If she’d ever voiced the question, cried “why are you doing this,” she would have been told in hurt and loving tones that were actually implacable, “because I love you.”

She loved and trusted him. Her every action watched, every move noted, her world small as ever; still hemmed in, penned and bound by you can’t, you shouldn’t, you mustn’t, and more. If she’d ever thought to ask “why are you doing this,” she would have been told “because I love you” with the same implacability.

She discovered bonsai. All her hemmed in, penned and bound realities shaped her trees. She became particular. She grew trees from seedlings, saw them as saplings and urged and nudged and pinched them into the shape of her vision. Then she used wires. If she thought her first seedling grown into sapling reaching out to experience more of the world ever asked her, “why are you doing this,” she’d have gone on twisting the wire around the branches to bend and hold them to the perfect front view and back that she envisaged for the young tree, and she’d have whispered “because I love you.”

Her collection of imprisoned trees, her miniature world grew as she aged. Unnaturally shaped to imitate nature, with hollows and lightning-struck scars and more detail, her trees grew. Her loving mother, who defined her boundaries when she was a child, who tainted her pubescent and teenaged perception of the world, was long dead now; her husband, who refined those boundaries and fences and limits, dead for a month.

She was old, herself. But not so old that she couldn’t dig a patch and find the perfect spot in the sprawling grounds her house was set in; it was the mansion and grounds that she was given in marriage to as much as her husband, by her mother. She was going to plant that tree, her first seedling sapling young tree that she stunted into submission; plant it in soil that would let it grow, now at forty years of age. At liberty to grow as it pleased at last.

“Are you crazy,” her sons screamed at her. “That tree will fetch thousands for its age alone. You are destroying it.” They took her potted world away from her to be cared for by a gardener. She was taken aback. For the first time, she whispered the words, “why are you doing this.” And she received an honest reply.

“Because these bonsai are money.”

Cheers!

Famed odors

2008-06-19T11:20:00.000+05:30

I was chatting with a friend a few weeks ago, and he said I could write about dreams and dreamscapes. I don’t dream much, I said. But there are things you want, wish that would happen, surely, he said. That is not dreaming, I said. That is thinking about things, wishing.

When you ardently wish for a situation, you’ll contrive to make it happen. That is when dreams turn into aspirations and goals. That is the difference.

I do think of a few impossible things, though. Famed odors is an anagram of food dreams, for instance. I don’t think of masala dosa or hot steaming rasam, though, thank you, Chenthil, Neha.

Heat emanating from the perfectly puffed out circle of batura, awaiting a nail to puncture the tissue thin top layer that makes a globe out of a circle and let out clouds of steam; glistening with oil and darkly, richly, fragrantly inviting chole. I think of that.

A white mound of rice, almost too hot to handle; the ephemeral aroma of fresh and pungent mustard, still plump mango pieces, and oil seeping slowly into the rice; the dollop of sinfully red new avakaya awaiting the first mouthful of the year. I think of that too.

Thin and crisp all over, gold and brown shading into saffron and russet where the heat was too intense; dotted with green titillation of chillies and curry leaves; a vast expanse of aroma and taste explosion waiting to happen; the crackle crinkle pop of breaking off the first piece, the ineffable invitation of a rava dosa. I think of it.

A sea of sambar in a plate, dotted with islands of baby onions; a white raft of idli to navigate towards the gleaming ecru dunes and shores of chutney. I’d settle for that.

Cheers!

Din dhal jaaye

2008-06-12T08:36:00.003+05:30

I leaned back in my cane chair and smiled. You smiled back. The cool aftermath of rain left the evening scented and becalmed. Too early for frogs. The balcony had some puddles left still, but our corner was dry, our chairs in the usual places, the table between.

I hadn’t bothered to turn the lights on against the arriving night. We sat savouring the evening. The scent of raat ki raani arose presently, and I smiled again. You smiled back. So many memories hinge on that shrub and its fragrant flowers, do they not?

As dusk deepened into night I went in and fetched a drink. You raised yours in silent toast. We sat together, as always. On the balcony, among the scents of night blooming shrubs planted by some thoughtful gardener long ago, we sat together, as always.

The descending night brought its own haunting sounds. A flute sounded plaintively, poignantly. It was untutored, utterly without sophistication, but the melody tugged at the heart. Some workman from the nearby construction site, surely. We exchanged smiles, my question unasked and your reply unnecessary. What did it matter what raga it was?

A car sped by. I frowned. You must have sensed that frown because we were sitting in the dark. I felt rebuked by your silent reproof. Well, I suppose people did have to get from place to place.

There was no need for conversation. I thought your thoughts, and you could read mine, always. A glance and a smile, a squeeze of fingers or a nudge spoke for us. That distant sound of drums and cacophony, we shrugged at another procession to immerse another idol; that mournful hoot of a goods train before its wheels beat a rhythm on the tracks that lingered a long while after the train passed, we sighed in unison. So many memories attached to the sound of trains.

I went to fetch another drink, negotiating the furniture easily in the dark. I sighed as I sat down. You looked disapproving. I was sighing in contentment, mostly, in gratitude for all the perfect evenings that went before. One more evening... You nodded.

Something brought the fireflies out. I watched in surprise. I always liked fireflies and all that they evoked. Some flitted close enough to try and grab. I didn’t, of course. You wouldn’t have liked that.

It was getting late. A distant dog barked in impotent fury at some slight. I got up regretfully. I folded and put away the chairs, dragged the table to a safe corner so it wouldn’t get rained on. I murmured a good night to you. Another evening gone by.

I went to eat my solitary dinner.

Cheers!

On the second day of the third month

2008-06-05T18:29:00.002+05:30

Directive for missionaries or substitutes? (12)*

When you go to bed at nine because you can’t sit up any longer, you know you are in trouble. There isn’t a single chair I can be comfortable in for long. Not the chairs’ fault, of course, but it feels like the furniture is ganging up against me.

When you wake up all slept out at one in the morning, you are in trouble too. No position is comfortable enough to sleep long in, and the pain always seems worse at night. You are all alone with the pain, and there’s no reasoning with it. You toss and turn, try deep breathing exercises, you sleep sitting up until your back feels less fragile and try to lie down again. You check the time and discover that barely half an hour has passed since you last checked.

The air seemed cool. Thunderstorm perhaps, I thought hopefully. Goodness knows it’s been a few hot and sultry days. But the thunder I heard seemed too far away to matter. The pain was getting worse. I counted backwards and decided that I could take another painkiller.

And then I remembered that today is the day of Gemfos. I dislike this medicine. I am supposed to take it

“at least 30 minutes before the first food or drink of the day other than water.

To facilitate delivery to stomach, GEMFOS should be swallowed while the patient is in an upright position and with a full glass of plain water (200 ml). Patients should not lie down for 30 minutes after taking the medication.”

Drinking a whole glass of water in one go is a pipe dream these days. (Literally a pipe dream, since I will be able to manage such a feat only when they insert that stent.)

Naturally enough, since the instructions say I should sit up, I ached to lie down, no matter I felt all slept out less than five minutes ago. Waiting half an hour before I can make myself a cup of tea is torture. I sat with my knees drawn up to my chin and tried to rock the pain into a distant sensation. Like that thunder, where is that thunderstorm happening, I wondered.

As I waited for the water to boil I counted my woes. Time was, morning tea meant veena practice, learning a new composition, perhaps. Now I don’t know if I can lift the veena off its stand. I need two hands to lift the kettle off the stove; ditto, to pick up the mug of tea on really bad days. I needed to return books, buy refills for my pens … small things, but I had no way of doing them.

There’s a bandh today, I reminded myself. I dislike having to ask favours, anyhow. No matter how sincere the person’s intentions when they declare, ‘just call me if you need anything done’, in reality, my needs and their convenience or schedules clash. Needing an escort to go to my salon or library is absurd, but there it was, the stark reality.

If I wanted to be really miserable, I could consider other things that are beyond me now. Playing the veena, cooking a decent meal or being able to eat it, going for a walk, ha, standing for longer than few minutes at a stretch, puchkas, or arranging my bookshelves at home, reading fat books… the list was getting too long.

One painkiller, swallowed carefully. As I waited for it to go down and stay down before I attempted sipping my tea, I stepped out into the balcony. And broke into a smile.

The sky glowered at me in that characteristic dark grey of monsoon clouds. This was no summer thunderstorm. This was monsoon, and early at that. The Met. Office can claim it was a pre-monsoon shower, but they don’t know everything.

I turned on my computer, and as I started on the day’s crosswords, I heard the decisive crack of thunder. Before the rumbles died away, the rain began with a roar. More lightning and thunder, and it was clear. This here was the monsoon, arriving dramatically and announcing itself.

There is always a silver lining, I smiled to myself.

Cheers!

*alternatives

Duty calls

2008-05-30T22:01:00.002+05:30

It might not be as pronounced in the latest generation, but us older folk remember the ordeal of duty. If you arrive from another city, no matter how short your time, you are expected to hunt up the addresses and go visit relatives.

Even in the same city, you are expected to make duty visits; in Calcutta, these would be during Durga Puja, or New Year visits. If you are closer, clan-wise, you are expected to keep in touch.

Duty does tend to make us all somewhat mechanical, especially if we are making duty phone calls. Rote set of questions asked and routine answers expected.

The land line rang. K answered. It was a cousin who believed strongly in doing the right thing, which is calling twice a year, to keep in touch. She went through the rote set.

After the expected questions about The Matriarch and the Son and Heir (she gave the emphasis, okay?) the conversation went like this:

Cousin: tumi kay mone achcho? (How are you?)
K: bhaalo achchi. (I am well)
C: tomaar bou bhaalo? (Is your wife well?)
K: na (No)
C: achchha, rakhchchi. (Good, I will ring off now)

Dislike of cousins by marriage can get intense, I admit. But this takes the cake, pie, pudding and ice-cream too.

Cheers!

The truth

2008-05-28T05:40:00.008+05:30

The truth shall make ye free.
Somewhere in the Bible

In Mahabharata, the great warrior Karna was said to have had many causes that contributed to his death at the hands of Arjuna. While I might not have that many, I do have a few reasons that led to this longish gap between posts.

I could blame it on my back- it hurt a lot over the last fortnight. And the doctors all preferred to have tests done and debate the findings than do the basic, necessary ‘needful’ thing, which was to make the pain go away, or at least subside enough so I could think beyond groans and grunts for speech and function like a human being.

I could blame it on my sisters- one added a shortcut to my desktop and played so much Spider Solitaire while she was visiting that it started showing on the Start menu. Naturally, I tried it out. Naturally, I got hooked. Yes, blame it on her. It is easier to deal another game than to write a blog post, really.

Oh, and she suggested a laptop, too. I thought it through and decided I’d rather go for an upgrade for my antediluvian machine, with bells and whistles; and there is a reason for it.

Each time my computer was upgraded, it was because of my son and heir. Usually, I inherit hardware the men folk in the house have no use for. But this time around, he bought a game for me that he thought would entertain me and keep me occupied. I tried to play the game, and found my computer couldn’t detect its existence. Worried calls to my computer boys and I was told my system is too old and slow.

An upgrade again, then, and it is still cheaper than getting a laptop and the house wired so I can write in bed. If I can write in bed, I can very well get up, go to my work-station and write there, after all. I don’t have the patience to learn to use that tiny mouse pad area or the ridiculous keyboard, anyhow.

I could blame my computer guys too. They took almost all week to bring my machine back. Then I had to customise my settings all over again. All my bookmarks were lost, and I had to struggle to remember passwords. There were the weekend crosswords, too.

Monday rolled in, and I found that the Bank Holiday jumbo crosswords occupied my time a while. What was I doing when I wasn’t actually solving clues, you ask? The other sister- you can blame my long silence on her, too.

The last time she visited, I grumbled at her that I was spending all my time at the computer playing Solitaire. She commiserated, and introduced me to Mah-jongg solitaire played online no less. I was glad when they came to take my computer away for the upgrade Monday last week, I can tell you. I had done nothing, but nothing other than play Mah-jongg solitaire since she left. If I felt bereft without my computer, I was still glad for that little period of de-tox.

Now, to my despair (I know this is a lost cause), Mah-jongg again and a feeble attempt at kicking the habit all of yesterday, I woke this morning with a “still, small voice” telling me that I was being lazy about Larking.

One of my favourite scenes in Tintin comics is Captain Haddock’s innate good sense and temptation arguing it out. While I didn’t have an angel and an imp exhorting me, I still had a bit of debate with myself. This is because I have lately discovered that being good, being nice, and doing the right thing are all not mandatory, but optional. I have discovered too, that long suppressed wickedness, when let loose, is not easy to reason with.

So there I was, at almost four o’clock in the morning, with a mug of tea and Mah-jongg. Eyes hunting pairs and mouse clicking them away, and this internal wrestling match.

My Conscience: You haven’t blogged in ages.
My Wicked Self: So what?
MC: You haven’t posted in nearly two weeks.
MWS: So? Some bloggers don’t post for months, after all.
MC: But you do, regularly. People might think you are, um, dead.
MWS: Hah. I will do a Granny Weatherwax, a one line post declaring ‘I ATEN”T DEAD’ then.
MC: It has been done by every blogger who reads Pratchett, good grief!
MWS: Most of my readers are friends, and they all know the situation, so why bother?
MC: Not the lurkers and readers who don’t write in, you owe them an explanation.
MWS: I will tell the truth, then.
MC: That you have been busy playing Mah-jongg instead of working on your poems and blogging?
MWS: Yeah, why not? Maybe some reader can suggest another game.

The truth, the whole truth and nothing but…um. Not quite, but that is a post for another day.

Cheers!

Awakening

2008-05-14T09:36:00.001+05:30

It was a dark and stormy night. You were so gallant, walking me home.

There were gusts of rain, occasional thunder and those puddles we threaded our way through as we sang snatches of the evening's best in unmusical splendour. Frogs croaked in the ditches on the sides of the lanes. The rickshaw-wallahs at the corner of my street took notice of us and decided that one of them doesn't have to sober up enough to go fetch 'baby' back home from the concert.

I'd seen you before, of course, many times. On the campus, where they spoke in awe about how brilliant you were; at concerts, where we began nodding and smiling at each other; and then that Season. You seemed to attend most of the concerts I did. I had a season ticket, I assumed you did too.

We spoke in the canteen over bad coffee. It was a bad year for the Season, what with the rains and the cyclone. Nevertheless, the concert hall was within walking distance, so I attended all the concerts: the lecture-demonstrations, the afternoon concerts of the hopefuls trying to break into the scene, the evening performances of the stars, the late night concerts of the in-betweens.

It turned out we were both waiting to listen to the late night artist. You asked me how I'd get home. I said my rickshaw-wallah would turn up; if not, I'd walk, no sweat. So at midnight you walked me home.

And we kissed. You were tall and lanky I raised my arm to cup your head and woke up. The crook of my elbow shielding my face as I slept was heavy.

Last year we met again in a bookshop. You seemed prosperous, not exactly overweight but getting there. You said I hadn't changed at all.

We spoke over decent coffee. You suggested lunch. I hadn't much else to do, so I accepted. I was out of touch with the music scene, and you seemed indifferent to it. Authors and books didn't occupy much of conversation time either. You talked discontentedly of your wife who seemed to spend her life in spas, and your corporate angst.

You said you remembered that night. I thought of the dream. I nodded and launched into a discussion of that artist's career. You wondered if I had more free time. I smiled no and walked away.

Cheers!

How many agorots to a shekel?

2008-05-10T22:02:00.000+05:30

Money isn't everything: usually it isn't even enough.
Anon.

"I don't know much about money," I objected. Writing about things I don't know is not my cup of tea, so I was dubious about the suggestion that I write about money. "I do know how to write cheques," I conceded.

That is about all I know or do about money matters, anyhow.

Later though, thinking about it, I decided that I was doing myself an injustice. While it is true I don't know much about money (it is, ultimately, numbers and I don't do numbers), I realised I do know quite a lot about money, too- things most people wouldn't know at all.

Take synonyms, for instance. I know a lot of synonyms for money: cash, coin, pelf, lucre, funds, riches, wealth, capital… or slang terms tin, dosh, loot, brass, bread, dough, ready, rhino, moolah, readies, shekels, spondulicks (ha!), wherewithal…

All this is trivia, I agree. It is knowledge gained from a lifetime of doing crosswords. But it is still knowledge. When a compiler decides on money or currencies as a theme, one scrambles and learns in a hurry.

My readers can reel off currencies better than I can, I am sure. Dollars, euro, yen, yuan, and more, and they can probably tell me exchange rates too. But while I can't tell you how many groszys there are in a zloty, I can tell you they are Polish currency. I can figure out rial, riyal, riel, krone, krona and kroner for clues. I can tell you stotinka is a Bulgarian coin.

I know that apart from being a body part and a punctuation mark, colon is a currency unit of Costa Rica and El Salvador. As is lek Albania's, pengo Hungary's, obang Japan's, and dong Vietnam's.

There are the evocative names, pfennigs (Germany), bugshas (Yemen), and zaichik (Belarus). There are thalers, abbreviated from Emmanthalers, from which came the dollar. There are the old English coins- bobs, royals and crowns; tanners and florins; and the improbable sounding dandiprat.

But all this doesn't mean much, so I objected, "I don't know much about money."

Being Nilu, he only said, "that's why." All the more reason I should write about it was what he meant.

"Reminds me of my son. There was one time, he was a little boy then, he wanted me to buy something. I said I didn't have the money. He said, well, go to the bank and buy some money."

"That's all there is," said Nilu. We laughed.

But, writing cheques is unreal, as is the world of crossword clues of kyats, pesos and korunas. The money I collect in my piggy bank and change to bank notes though, now that always feels real.

Cheers!

One special moon

2008-05-04T21:30:00.001+05:30

Waking up at all hours of the night has its charming surprises. I see moonrise at times I wouldn't have otherwise.

I like looking at the moon. From the bedroom window or the balcony, the sight of the ruddy globe clearing the treetops on full moon days always lifts my mood. Each evening after, the moonrise is later and later, and soon I forget to watch out for it.

Over the last fortnight though, I have seen the over-large seeming full moon and the waning moon both rise. When I go to bed late, I do see the gibbous moon putting in its appearance, but to wake up in the small hours and see the moon looking thinner each day is a new experience.

I never set much store by rites and rituals and holidays on the calendar; always thought them a waste of man-hours and misinterpreting what those rites marked- passing seasons and the need to prepare ahead for coming seasons.

I preferred always to watch out for other celestial events, rather. Eclipses, transits of Mercury across the disc of the Sun, meteor showers, comets crashing into gas giants… these are far more interesting. I was enthralled by the last total solar eclipse visible in India, disappointed by Halley's comet, and fascinated by the coppery hue of the moon during a total lunar eclipse. I remember being appalled and flinging a book away when I realised the writer set a solar eclipse on a full moon day.

As I wake earlier and earlier these days and see the crescent moon over the treetops, I am seized by a whim. There is one rare phenomenon of the moon- sighting the thin crescent on new moon day. I'd like to see that. There is a name for this crescent of moon that appears on new moon day, just before sunrise or during sunset. It is called sineevaali.

But it is easier said than done. The predawn hours that have been clear for the last week or so turned overcast today, the last day of the waning moon. There is no point trying to spot the crescent in the evening, I don't have a good western view, the city lights make it impossible anyway. Even in the mornings, it is only chance that allows me to look for the moon in the early hours. Had the KMC placed their street lamps on slightly different spots, the glare would have drowned out the delicate fading out of night and fading in of dawn.

Tomorrow, Monday the fifth, is new moon day. It is the day when the Times Bank Holiday Jumbo puzzles will come out, and the Guardian Genius. According to my Telugu calendar, the star that rises with the moon is bharani, the star I was born under. To see the crescent moon at dawn tomorrow would be a perfect foil to all these.

It is also our anniversary. Whether I spot the crescent moon or not, happy twenty-fifth, Kalyan.

Cheers!

Hot and bothered

2008-04-25T11:28:00.000+05:30

There is a poem I am very fond of quoting:

As a rule, Man is a fool.
When it is hot he wants it cool;
When it is cool he wants it hot,
Always wanting what is not.

Everybody I know is complaining about the heat. Being housebound, I am not sure how hot it really is, though.

We all have our rituals and tricks to keep cool, and it is not always turning the air-conditioners on. At home, we shut windows and draw curtains closed before the day begins to heat up. This darkening helps. By the time we open things up late afternoon, there is already a breeze and things seem bearable. Also, we happen to live on the edge of the Lake. The green cover and the fact that we aren't boxed in by high-rises around us help, too. And the result is that I have no idea how hot it really is outside.

I began taking note of the weather and daily temperature in Delhi. The first winter saw a ritual evolving, reading the weather report, and the 'daily dose of horror' at how low the mercury can dip. Of course, the first summer saw me getting aghast at how high the mercury can rise, too.

Now Calcutta isn't as bad, we have the sea breeze, which Delhi hasn't heard of, and the nor'westers are more cooling than the dust storms of Delhi. But in recent years, I have noticed hot and dry winds blowing here too, and it seems like the temperatures are rising each summer.

But I discovered via this Telegraph report that the temperature readings I follow each day are not quite the gospel truth I thought they were. Those figures represent 'air temperature', a reading taken from a thermometer housed in a Stevenson screen, as unreal as it can get. This ignores earth's low-level radiation, ambient temperature that rises or falls depending on many factors. It is apparently, the 'real' temperature.

For a person waiting in a traffic jam at midday in summer, the heat produced by the high-rises, vehicles, and air-conditioners in offices, homes and shopping complexes all adds up and makes for a very 'real' hot day. Most major thoroughfares have scant tree cover to provide any relief, thanks to KMC's brainless lopping off of branches that might cast shade on the streets. Urban heat islands is a very descriptive phrase, and the effect can be felt as one moves from the business districts to leafy residential areas.

But since all that is ignored, if the papers say the maximum temperature was some thirty-eight degrees Centigrade, we have to add a good three or four degrees to it to arrive at the 'real' temperature in the city. Good grief!

Alipore Meteorological Office happens to be on grounds with abundant tree cover and the Stevenson screen is hardly the right place to measure how hot it seems to real people in the city. Why can't they take readings from five or six different points in the city and tell us how hot the day really was?

Cheers!

Missus Em decides to be cross

2008-04-21T11:22:00.002+05:30

"And these people will grow up and become columnists and commentators on issues," I sighed. He sighed louder. "Now what?" "How anybody can write such ungrammatical stuff is beyond my understanding," I went on.

"Somebody missed a comma or an apostrophe?" he inquired in a long suffering polite tone. I heard the doorbell, but ignored both tones and went on with my grouse.

"No. People ignore tense continuity. Worse, they confuse and mix up tenses, often in the same paragraph or sentence. I'd have thought it's so simple - there are only three tenses and four variations. Even I can count that high, and I only need two toes on top of my fingers."

A look of alarm flashed on the face of our friend who entered as I spoke. We greeted him. Once we were comfortably settled with drinks at hand and things to munch, he asked me about it.

"What is this needing only two toes on top of your fingers? Some complicated yoga posture?"

"Nope." I grinned. "Tenses. People get them wrong all the time, especially the perfect tense. It's simple enough, after all. Present; present continuous, present perfect and present perfect continuous. I gnash my teeth. I am gnashing my teeth. I've gnashed my teeth. I've been gnashing my teeth. Past…" I stopped my chant to draw a breath.

"I get the picture," he smiled. "Don't laugh, it really bothers me." I said. I know I tend to be extravagant when writing, but I really am moderate in speech.

"You sound like my wife. She has this quaint way of putting it, she says she is so cross." He smiled again. "Our children laugh at her, of course, and say nobody says cross anymore."

We went on to talk about other things, mostly things that made us cross, and the conversation flowed. I thought about it later, though. Cross is how I feel; even leaving inflections and conjugation out of it, not mentioning apostrophes at all, cross is how I feel when I read newspapers or articles or essays on the Internet.

I know I am repeating myself here, but I am a mild person, and sweet-tempered to boot. But there are times when the sweetest temper can turn sour. I don't always grouse about it on the blog, though.

I didn't say a word when I completed this month's Genius puzzle in twenty-five minutes (and five of them were spent printing the puzzle and pencilling in the solutions) and felt let down, did I? I didn't say anything at all about my decision to never believe my surgeon again. (Oh, I trust him with my life, I just won't believe his time projections for recovery again.)

I didn't even mention my phone woes, and not just telemarketers' calls either. I didn't ever talk about the mails I get bombarded with, from banks, credit card companies, and more.

A digression: the only bank that doesn't pester me is HSBC, and that is because we parted ways in a very acrimonious fashion. They gave me an ATM card. Free, they said. I used it sparingly, but was quite happy to have it. A year later, their monthly statement showed a charge for it. I protested. They said it was free only for the first year. I said they hadn't said so explicitly when they gave me a card I hadn't asked for.

I said I would have no more truck with them. They offered me a different account, where the card charges would be waived, better services and more. I said, no thank you. But Missus Em, said the person I was speaking to. Stop right there, I said; did she know that was the first time any of the bank staff actually addressed me by name, or looked at me properly? (They generally treated me like the Invisible Woman.)

Oh, wait. The reason why HSBC doesn't pester me is probably because they don't have my email address.

As I was saying, I don't grumble about these things. Then again, I said earlier, there are limits. Reserve Bank of India and their directives to banks get my goat. Really.

Some months ago, State Bank of India sent a letter to my mother-in-law. As per RBI's directive KYC, they needed to know their customers. Their records have inadequate proof her identity and existence. She needed to provide some documents to satisfy their requirements.

I provided the documents, and a covering letter; to prove that an account-holder for three decades was who their records claimed she was. As I anticipated, there arrived letters addressed to my husband and me, wanting us to help SBI know their customers. I did the 'needful'.

Then, two weeks ago, a familiar envelope arrived, addressed to my mother-in-law. The SBI, following RBI directive KYC, wanted her to provide documentary evidence that she was who their records said she was. Again.

Did you know, sexpot in area, a riot expanse, repeat on axis, sane expiator... are all anagrams of exasperation?

Cheers!

Still life

2008-04-16T09:40:00.001+05:30

That was a wonderful book, was Fup. Grandaddy Jake Santee, Tiny, their hen mallard Fup, and the rampaging boar Lockjaw. What I remember best about Jim Dodge's book is Grandaddy Jake's pursuit of the still life. I regret giving the book away.

I live a still life now. Curtains flutter and birds swim in the sky I see from the windows; light and shade play games on the walls and on my retinae. I await and note the passage of planes flying too high to sound their passing but that leave contrails as memory.

But there is the phone next to me. Always. It rings and memories take flight, like a flock of birds startled at feeding. I always think of the Thousand Lights Mosque then. I wonder if anybody even remembers the pigeons there.

But I was talking about memories, how they take flight, bloom and overwhelm, all in the space of a heartbeat.

How many years do you have to be apart before a voice stops being instantly recognisable? Or a name all that one has to state? The phone rings and I know it is you. I know half a dozen Rams, variations on the theme of, but there is only one you. As we talk, I remember inconsequential things, things you probably don't remember, but then you probably remember things I forgot or never gave importance to.

Do you remember that cricket game one blazing summer afternoon, when I asked if I couldn't be the good keeper rather than the wicked keeper? Or that walk to Teynampet, badam kheer and how we gave up and took the bus back home? Sucking on ice cubes?

There were the endless board games and our version of go-moku. I thought of you when I read about Shibo Yangcong-san and HEX running on the march of the ants. Do you remember those evenings of solemn discussions when we were older?

The phone rings and more memories blossom. Of the first time I wrote to her. The first mail I received from him. The first time he called.

The phone rings and my sisters transport me back to my youth, shared jokes and signals so esoteric that the original joke is lost. Leela Vanalata Mahatma Gandhi Dorasaani? Why do we laugh at that?

The phone rings and I am a tentative seeker once more, finding friends in chat rooms and remembering the laughter shared. The phone rings and I talk about poetry and favourite authors. The phone rings and there is gossip. The phone rings and suddenly I am awash in memories and talk, more memories being forged all unnoticed till later.

So what are you doing, is a silly question when you call and open the conversation. We both know that. But it is a point from which I take off and fly in memories and now.

Physically I am in my bed, yes, watching flights of birds and planes, the transit of stars at night along the dome of sky. I wonder at a flashing bright point moving entirely too fast until I remember Clarke, and smile at the satellite winking its way on the canvas of my sky. Physically, I am confined to these four walls. But the phone rings and my mind soars.

It is a still life, but memory is the flight of birds.

Cheers!

Lullaby

2008-04-08T15:47:00.003+05:30

Or how to read a poem:

She tossed the first four lines off casually, even as we chatted. It would be impressive, but then this is Neha, so it was only to be expected. Then she adds the next five. And what a perfect lullaby the whole poem makes!

When you read the first sentence in this poem, you are struck by the imagery. Then you read the second and realise that the first was the refrain of a lullaby. The cadence is right, the length too, for South Indian lullabies. We don't call it refrain, of course, but pallavi, and the repeats makes it poignant.

Here too, the next five lines establish the lullaby-hood of the poem though she calls it an ode. They speak of the deeds the singer will perform for the grown woman being sung to. That clinches it, especially as the eye is dragged back towards the first line. One can almost hear the drone of the song and sense the woman nodding off to sleep on a stomach overfull of soup.

Bravo, Neha.

Cheers!

A harmony saga

2008-04-06T21:57:00.002+05:30

What price Ogden Nash? Indeed, so let's have a bash
At being playful and jaunty and deal in sundry mish-mash.
Or rather, in merry and amusing anagrams
Which are easier than essays, rants or diagrams.
Well, I am incapable of Nashian infinite expansion
While winking at the old-fashioned idea of scansion;
Much as I'd love to take more of your time,
I seem to have run out of couplets that rhyme.

So here goes: 'A harmony saga', also known as 'anagrams ahoy!'

I called them 'semi-fascist tyrants' while they were here, but now that all three of 'my fantastic sisters' have left, I miss them very much. So I consoled myself with my favourite occupation. No, it is not correcting other people's grammar or raving at idiots. That would leave me with little time to do anything else, and also I learnt to grin and bear it to save wear and tear on my teeth.

Though it is 'a stagnating romp', I indulged in some 'anagram spotting', and very rewarding it was too.

Did you know that eroticism is an anagram of isometric? That violated can be rearranged to read dovetail? It makes you stop and think, I tell you.

Have you ever seen that 'continued' and 'unnoticed' contain the same letters? Or that new 'directions' need 'discretion'? That 'malediction' is 'a mild notice'? 'Imprecation' 'metric piano'? 'Magic trap' can be 'pragmatic'. When 'le mot juste' is 'mute jostle', what can we expect?

Rearranging the letters of 'petulance' gives 'lucent ape'; and 'fantastic' can be rearranged to read 'isn't a fact'. My pet peeve these days, 'socialite feminists', I discovered can be 'Felicitation Misses'.

When I see the huge number of comments other bloggers get and feel envious, I remind myself that the phrase 'sour grapes' is also 'sugar poser' and while it might form part of my 'par grouses', I ought not to grumble too much about it. So even if it can read 'cite liars' I tend to be 'realistic' and wish them well. I can't write about the things they do, anyhow.

I discover instead that- 'Oh doubt a man? Touching!' is an anagram of 'Much Ado About Nothing', and smile. (You thought I wasn't going to bring the Bard into this, did you? 'Wherefore art thou Romeo' is an anagram of 'raw theorem of outré hero'; so there.)

'Save the turtles' is an anagram of 'leave truths set' and that ought to tell something to people who mail me about their well being (the turtles' I mean). Species are supposed to go extinct, and the sooner we do, the better for planet Earth. 'Stave the result', and stop asking me for help to 'save the turtles'.

In other news, I am living in 'interesting times' which is an anagram of 'grim entities sent', by the way. And if I had to wish for things, I would dearly like those regulars my site tracker says I have as visitors to take time and 'post a comment', as it is the 'commonest pat'. But Frank Herbert did say, if wishes were fishes we'd all cast nets. I wonder if he considered 'vegetarians', an anagram of 'envisage rat', when he said that. But that is beside the point.

Cheers!

Future tense

2008-04-02T22:00:00.001+05:30

When expectations are that Missus Em will do an anagram revel, and I am working on it off and on, I promise you, I am tempted to write about something else. More so, because this is a project I am hoping to complete soon. Yeah, well, before I die. But since the doctors won’t commit themselves about how long I have, it gets interesting. What if I am still blogging after one year?

What future holds is obscure anyway, so I refuse to consider it more than necessary. Here is a translation of a poem, For Memories, that I wrote in the nineties. The original is below, too bad if you want transliteration.

Future Tense

The golden orb of sun has sunk in the west.
In this light of crackling campfire and
Unclear time,
What musk of urgent desire
Will accompany these memories and scent them?
Pearl-glistening moonlight
Night's live orchestra for us
What swooning satiety will fill your eyes?
How many jasmine night dreams
For us- plucking heartstrings?
How many jasmine night dreams
For us- desire overflowing cupped hands?

జ్ఞాపకాల కోసం

సూర్యుని స్వర్ణబింబం పశ్చిమాన వాలిపోయింది
ఈ కణకణలాడే చలిమంట వెలుగుల్లో
అస్పష్టంగా కనబడే కాలం
ఏ ఆతురత నిండిన ఆర్తి కస్తూరి
ఈ జ్ఞాపకాలకి తోడు పరిమళిస్తుందో
ముత్యాల మెరుపుల వెన్నెల
రాత్రి సజీవ సంగీతం మన కోసం
ఎంత నిర్వాణసమమైన సంతృప్తి
నీ కళ్ళలో నిలుస్తుందో
ఎన్ని మల్లెల రాత్రి కలలు
మన కోసం - గుండె తీగలు మీటి
ఎన్ని మల్లెల రాత్రి కలలు
మన కోసం - కోర్కె దోసిళ్ళు నిండి

Cheers!

You'll always be my baby

2008-03-30T12:40:00.001+05:30

That does it, I thought. When your very own toyboy's eyes glaze over as you hold forth about something, it is time to blog about it and get it off the chest than bend ears.

To be frank, I talked to Chenthil about it and he sounded amused, in a 'Missus Em and her foibles' kind of way. I talked to another friend who called from London, and I could sense her falling asleep as I spoke. I raved at friends who visited me in the nursing home and they escaped citing visiting hours. I tried explaining why I was upset to my sister, who said she stood a better chance of understanding what some lady called Saroj Khan was teaching on the telly. It turned out to be Bollywood dancing. The lord and master said I'd get over it, and suggested I read some nice book to lift my mood. Then my toyboy's eyes glazed over.

There is no help for it but I have to inflict this on my readers. You are warned.

I'd been waiting for lo these many years to read some of the works by a favourite author that have been consistently out of print. These included a couple of novels, some plays of uneven length and some skits.

Now, my family knows about my obsession about this author, so my brother-in-law brought me a copy of the plays that he managed to acquire when he came to visit me in the nursing home. It wasn't his fault. In fact, he did stellar service towards keeping my mind off the pain of surgery because I was in an 'ancient Indian ancestry (12)'* fury over the plays.

Let's pass over the details, I don't want to froth at the mouth again. The plays would send people to sleep before the first scene ended, unless they were seething like me. I am only going to restrict myself to mourning sloppy usage from an author I always admired for 'le mot juste'.

bala, balaka, balika refer to children. balakrishna is baby or child Krishna. balakarna would be child Karna. Boys and girls below sixteen years of age could be referred to as bala, but that is a stretch.

Just think about this. Kunti had a child by the god Surya and abandoned him to a river (memories of Moses and the bulrushes, Huckleberry Finn and all). Then she got married, had more children, got widowed, and went to Hastinapura to bring up her sons and her co-wife's. Okay?

The author wrote a play with two imaginary scenes that decide Karna's loyalties early on. In one scene, Kunti recognises Karna walking down the street, invites him to her palace, gushes over him, and Arjuna comes in and acts all haughty and rude. In the next, Karna runs an errand for Duryodhana; the prince and his brother decide he is worthy of being in their retinue and befriend him. Bah! But still, the author is entitled to his imagination.

My grouse is with something else though. In the initial description of the scene and settings, the author says Kunti is talking to balakarna. After gnashing my teeth and raving about it, I sat and did a heroic thing. I did numbers; counting on fingers and toes, and asking the Resident Mathematician to check them later (the numbers, that is, not my fingers and toes). I wanted to arrive at a sensible figure, the reasonable number of years before Kunti could have met the infant she consigned to a river, and the difference of years between Karna and the Kunti's other children.

Kunti begat Karna by the god Surya, a boon she didn't want. Now the epics and Puranas, classics all talk of sadyogarbha and say she bore her son immediately. Sadly, sadyogarbha only means she conceived right away. Tryst and travail happening immediately after is fond imagining of people who refuse to think. Even if you assume that by some miracle she came to term immediately after her dalliance with Surya, she still had to go through childbirth; very likely, she had to go through the entire pregnancy too.

(A minor digression, do think twice before you use the word travail whether in singular or plural next time. Originally, it meant the concluding stage of pregnancy, from the beginning of contractions till childbirth. The secondary meaning is use of physical and mental energy, and hard work.)

Kunti couldn't have got back from consigning her infant to the river and traipsed off to marry Pandu in a swayamvara right away. There must have been a year or two at the least between the two events.

Then she went to Hastinapura to be queen. But journeys those days were long and arduous. There might have been carts drawn by oxen, but queens travelled in litters and much time was spent making and breaking camp. There were seasons to consider and rivers in flood and more.

Assume three years of marriage, happy or not, before she acquired a co-wife, Madri. Now Madri was as much a princess, if not more so than Kunti, so assume three years of being a co-wife that Madri got used to, too.

Then Pandu went conquering on behalf of his brother. Armies might march faster than bridal processions, but they still need provisioning, and provisions and baggage trains travel slow. Also, conquering isn't quite like walking down to the corner shop and buying groceries. It takes years.

Assume five years, or let's be generous and assume three years of conquering. Then Pandu came back and distributed the plundered wealth, Dhritarashtra performed sacrifices, and there was much rejoicing all round before Pandu got the hunting bug.

Even if we assume that the first animal Pandu shot at was the ill-omened deer, and he was cursed right away, there must have been a year before he retired to be an ascetic in the foothills of the Himalayas with his wives. He would have needed that much time to inform his family, take permission, and formally renounce the world.

He spent some years being an ascetic before he got to thinking about dying without heirs. It couldn't have happened overnight. Assume two years.

Even if Pandu convinced Kunti to beget children through niyoga quickly enough, and she bore three sons before the jealous co-wife wanted children too, so there was one more birth, this time of twins…clockwork though it could have been, it still must have taken some four years. More likely some six or seven years.

Some years passed while the children are described in the Sanskrit version of Mahabharata, and the Telugu version I am more familiar with, as flourishing and growing rapidly. They must have been older than toddlers, when Pandu tried to bed Madri and died.

Lamentations, debate with Madri about who should accompany Pandu on the funeral pyre, the cremation, going to Hastinapura with the children, all these take time. More lamentations and more funeral rites by Pandu's brother and nephews; it would all take time, too.

They would have to have been settled into a routine in the city before Kunti could have spotted Karna on the streets of Hastinapura, recognised him and invited him in.

Now tell me if the adjective bala was le mot juste.

Aargh!

Post Script: Tivi, please don't argue that these were semi-divine births and took no time at all. That still would lessen only four years from my estimate.

*Incandescent

Tere ghar ke saamne

2008-03-23T06:00:00.002+05:30

Readers, Fellow-bloggers and Lurkers: lend me your eyes. (Don't panic, you will get them back.) I have been away to spend another few days in a nursing home. The comments on recent posts, when I read them today, made me feel flattered, proud and humble. Thank you all for the good wishes. Please don't take exception that I am not replying individually, that is a bit much right now. I will get back to doing that, of course, never fear.

Sivaram wanted lighthearted poetry and sitting on a hospital bed is not conducive to creativity. So I came up with this translation. I sent it as a text message to friends and got a couple of laughs, so I think it may pass muster.

Tiffin Twins
A Tam can live on idli-vada for aeons,
To jilebi-singara a Bong will sing paeans;
A Gult only needs pesarattu-upma to make his day,
What combo does an Eskimo rejoice in, pray?

"A surge in your career and a call from a lover will surprise you," " My sister read out the weekly predictions made for masses by a tarot card reader. "Blah blah blah…so on and so forth. Aha! A relationship might end but expect a sudden surge in your love life."

"Not at our time of life," I muttered quoting Nanny Ogg, which was wasted on her.

"Here, yours is interesting, " she went on. "You may face problems with your legs. Avoid surgery; take some rest!"

"A week too late," I said trying to find a comfortable position on the bed. Her attention was diverted by a crow that landed on the windowsill. "Crow, crow, tell me true; hop and skip if kinfolk are due." She recited the old formula. I snorted. Of course, we will get kinfolk visiting- the Delhi sister will come for the weekend; the Hyderabad sister will come next week. We didn't need a crow to forecast that.

"Hey, they are making a nest in that jackfruit tree," she reported. "There is another crow with a nice long twig in its beak. Aargh, wedge it from the other side, you idiot bird!"

By the time the crows had two twigs wedged in place, she decided that her fortune telling crow was the female. It sat and looked peevish when the twigs fell off, instead of swooping like the other to retrieve them. I objected. It could be the male, guarding the nesting site, while the female picked up fallen twigs.

"Nah, it looks like a female."

I said it wasn't easy to tell. But the calls of crows are familiar to me. People think that crows only have the harsh 'caw' for their call. But they are great conversationalists, and have a variety of calls. I once heard a crow soliloquise on my windowsill, in a semi-guttural call interspersed with the baby calls without the 'feed me' note of urgency. To me it sounded like Hamlet's dilemma revisited.

There was conversation from the nest-builders too. My sister thought they were arguing about the suitability of the site. It was a confluence of three branches, one stout limb and the other two slightly below it. If the crows had the sense to wedge the twigs from the thinner branches to the thicker, they'd have had an easy time of it, my sister decided. But the conversation of the crows could have been about the neighbourhood, distances they'd have to go to forage, if a jackfruit tree was a good tree to nest in. I never lived in a place that had jackfruit trees, so I had no idea if it was common for crows to nest in them.

The area was good, though. Old World Residential, so there were trees in the backyards, there was no traffic or high-powered streetlights to distort their time-sense. There was no worry about the branch getting lopped off by the KMC, which routinely happens to trees on main thoroughfares. Not good for the chicks growing up.

After the fifth attempt to wedge a third twig, my sister turned away from the window. "It is too frustrating to watch," she said. I hobbled over to the chair and watched the nest building for a while. I decided that my sister was right about the fortune telling crow being a female. It used a lot of baby calls without the urgent note, and her posture suggested she expected to be taken care of. Those baby calls without the cheeps of 'feed me' urgency still made her side of the conversation full of imperatives and impatience.

The fourth twig did it; they'd wedged three, and seemed to have a good base, a bit on the large side, but workable. But when the other crow tried to add the fourth, three twigs fell off. This must be their first attempt at building a nest, I thought.

The perhaps female spoke. The call sounded like an ultimatum. I want a nest, and I want it here. The perhaps male spoke. It was placating and calming. Then, with a longish call, the crow flew down to retrieve the twigs.

That call sounded like, ek ghar banaaoongaa, to me. A promise.

"Be ready for added responsibilities brought on by someone else's deeds. Though overworked, you will complete the project successfully. You may change residence. You will be apprehensive about finances. The one you loved will no longer give you joy. Be determined to get what you want," my sister read aloud.

"I wonder if that female is a Leo," she said.

Cheers!

Think you can write about it?

2008-03-10T22:22:00.002+05:30

She heard sounds of stirring from his room. She knew the routine well, now. Six months ago, she'd not have known.

Now, she'd lie there sleepless most of the night, all nights. It wouldn't do to toss or turn and give any indication that she was awake. It would rouse others. It would be inconsiderate. In the silent nothingness her days and nights were now, that was still a no-no, you don't inconvenience others.

They'd talk at her anyway and she was all out of words. She thought she was directing her story; they thought she lost the plot. She thought words ran out of her mile-a-minute to explain; they stole her earlier words to be pored over and raped by random strange eyes and brains. She had no words left for thieves and rapists and voyeurs.

She heard the sounds of stirring and he came out, tripping as usual on the little painted wooden riser decorated with auspicious yellow and red. There might have been amusement once, now there was nothing but holding still, breathing evenly.

He stopped at her bed- the bed she nowadays made with military precision, tucking sheets into knife-edge corners and arranging the top sheet just so. She tried to breathe deeper, to indicate slipping into deep sleep. His hand hovered near her face, not quite at the cheek or the forehead or her neck.

Instead of touching her, he said softly, you are awake. It was not a question or a taunt- just a statement of fact. She stayed mute. She'd had practice in the last six months. As she shuttled from psychiatrist to therapist to her bed to resume staring at nothing, she'd had a lot of practice staying mute.

Come, I want to show you something, he said, and walked into the middle room. Curiosity had no call on her, but conditioning did. She swung her legs out of the cocoon of her sheets and followed him. Out of the front door which he opened only one panel of, down the plinth and across the thatched-in-annex that served as their morning-room to the split-bamboo fence that marked the start of a garden once extensive but now straggly and meagre.

It was dark and the branches of guava, frangipani and the sweet-lime that met and hung over the thatch made it darker. He fidgeted, trying to find a particular spot and said, ah. He moved over, wordlessly inviting her to take the place and see for herself. She had no interest, but conditioning made her look for the spot.

Through the branches, over the low boundary wall, far in the street ahead shone a street lamp. As she watched, a light came on above it. An early riser perhaps, or a night owl turning in, that light floated strangely above the street lamp. She knew she must remark upon it, but she was out of words.

She moved away. Ah, he said again. I wonder if it is a student preparing for exams or just an insomniac. She remained silent, she had to right to do so, she remembered reading.

What do you see, he said. Now that the street lamp and the light were out of view, she could make out dark, the layers thereof. The branches of each tree added a different texture to it, and it was vaguely lit by another unseen street lamp she knew was somewhere behind and to the right of their house.

What do you sense, he said. She could sense daybreak. Their house, she knew, was built strictly according to vaastu. As she glanced to her left, apart from his bulk next to her, further away, at the top of the short flight of stairs to the terrace, in the darkness etched into eldritch patterns by the mango tree and the coconut palms of the neighbours, there was a sense of the sky lightening.

Daybreak, she croaked with her disused voice. His arm encircled her, hand resting on her right shoulder lightly. A feather would have felt heavier.

What do you hear, he said. She listened. It was the month of devotions, and there were matrons and maidens decorating their front yards. There were sounds of double-boilers of milk whistling; there were faint praises to various gods. Day starting, she said, voice sounding clearer this time.

Think you can write about it? She pursed her lips, nodding and shaking her head at the same time, unsure if she had to say anything, but definitely needing to clamp down on the sobs.

His hand squeezed her shoulder for a fraction of a moment. I am going for a walk, want to come along? you can turn back when you get tired, he said. She nodded. Be ready in ten minutes, he said and went back into the house.

She had trouble with his pace. She had trouble with the fact that she was out in the world. She wanted the nothingness of sitting in her perfectly made bed and staring into middle distance. But she walked.

He had many friends who walked the same route at the same time. They stared or averted their eyes. She kept falling behind, trying not to pant, to ignore the burning in her calves, to forget how ridiculous she must look to these dapper gentlemen in the park.

When halfway point was reached, she had no energy to turn back. She sank gratefully on to a concrete bench and watched a world she never knew existed. Think you can write about it, she murmured to herself. Of course I can write about it, she thought, in a rekindling of youthful arrogance she thought was stolen along with the words from her.

One of the walkers, a good friend obviously, jerked an eyebrow towards her in a clear question. My daughter, he said.

Cheers!

Post Script: Sivaram wanted light-hearted poetry and Missus Em shall provide, but this was written before he posted his comment, so there. All things, Sivaram, come to those who wait.

Ode to my Muse

2008-03-06T10:05:00.001+05:30

"వెలగమంటే వెలుగుతాను
వెన్నలాగ కరగు

వెళ్ళమంటే పోతాను
వీధిలాగ పరచుకో"

I recited, tracing circles on his shoulder. "That is how it begins and those are the lines I remember best." He shrugged under my fingers. "Translate it for me."

That was the first time I was confronted with translating a poem. I was reasonably fluent in three languages and could grasp nuances of poetry therein, I'd thought. Always before, if I quoted Tamil or Telugu, I never had to translate; the allusion or the tangent, the reference or the jests were always understood. Translate it for me, was a mountain to be scaled.

When you are newly in love, when you are discovering each other, there is a lot to talk about. You trade life stories, you tell each other the deepest secrets of your life so far, you marvel at how much you like the same things and wonder if there is something about the other's particular craze, after all. You are receptive, and you receive a lot. Sex is one thing, and then there are hours spent talking, bodies snuggling into each other or sitting sprawled on a sofa among books. If you speak different languages, you learn more poetry as you learn about each other and what moves the other to tears.

I always had an unjustified and indefensible idea that if it is poetry it must be Telugu. Granted, English has some nice stuff, but Telugu rules, okay? I'd have stuck to it, with a qualification that Tamil poets knew what they were about too, and that would have been that.

But he recited bits of poems to me. I did too, but his were surprisingly evocative. I forgot to sneer in a superior fashion that befits a speaker of a language that was carved into inscriptions long before the Brits thought up parliament. Because the poems moved me, the songs he sang moved me, I fell in love with another language and its poetry too; because I was in love.

"Ask me, I will burn; melt like butter," I said. "Tell me to go, I will; spread like the path."

"I am not sure I got that."

That is the trouble with translating from Telugu to English; a bare bones translation doesn't carry the nuances and implied stuff. venna laaga karagu is addressed to a person. But the 'you' is understood, it didn't need to be stated. I should have translated it as, if you ask me to, I will burn; you melt like butter-- which is awkward.

I remember smiling. "It is a matter of reciprocity, you see? I translated just the bare words. The poet is saying, I will burn, if you ask me to, except in Telugu the word velugu means to shine, too. Stars shine, and do so by burning, that is as fierce a fire as you can get. All light is fire at some point, so it is not just a paltry lamp or fire we are considering here. So. I will burn if you ask me to, but you must melt too. Likewise and more seriously, I will go away if you ask me, only if you agree and spread to be the path I am treading. There is also an allusion, a connection you can make to ritual fires and the feeding of such. That the relationship is special, not a trivial campfire."

"Ah. So how does it go on?"

I confessed I'd have to look it up. I knew the gist, of course. The poet goes on talk about the importance of the person. It ends with a poignant plea to the person to remain being a Muse.

Decades after that night, I came across the poem again:

నన్ను నీ రక్తం పిలిచినప్పుడు
కన్ను పరధ్యానంగా ఉంది

మొన్న నీ మౌనం పగలనప్పుడు
పొద్దు పొగ చూరింది

దాచిన అశ్రులన్నీ పూచనప్పుడు
సంధ్యారాగం మబ్బుకొన్నప్పుడు

గుండె గుబాళించనప్పుడు
నరాలు గుర్రాలు దిగనప్పుడు

నిన్ననో మొన్ననో పూర్వజన్మలో
నిద్ర చైతన్యాన్ని వలచింది

నీ నిట్టూర్పు నన్ను దొలిచింది
నీ కన్నీరు నన్ను కలచింది

నిచ్చెనలు విరిచి పారేశాక
పచ్చిక వెచ్చగా నవ్వింది

నీ మీద నేను పాడలేనుగానీ
నా మనస్సుగా ఇలాగే స్పందించు.

velagamanTE velugutaanu
vennalaaga karagu

veLLamanTE pOtaanu
veedhilaaga parachukO

nannu nee raktam pilichinappuDu
kannu paradhyaanamgaa undi

monna nee mounam pagalanappuDu
poddu poga choorindi

daachina aSrulannee poochanappuDu
sandhyaaraagam mabbukonnappuDu

gunDe gubaaLinchanappuDu
naraalu gurraalu diganappuDu

ninnanO monnanO poorvajanmalO
nidra chaitanyaanni valachindi

nee niTToorpu nannu dolichindi
nee kanneeru nannu kalachindi

nichchenalu virichi paarESaaka
pachchika vechchagaa navvindi

nee meeda nEnu paaDalEnugaanee
naa manassugaa ilaagE spandinchu.

But there is always trouble in translating, and it didn't get easier over the years; if anything it got worse. But I got better at ignoring his nitpicking- like how the puns will carry over, like the mention of ladders. It is alluding to worldly aspirations, but how can you translate it in less than a full essay about metaphors and images? I learnt to say piffle.

So here is the poem I tried to recite to him.

I will shine if you ask me to
And melt like butter yourself

Ask me to go, I will leave
If you spread like my path.

Eye was preoccupied
When your blood hailed me

The other day when your silence
Was unbroken, the dawn was smoky.

When all secret tears didn't flow-er
And sunset hues clouded

When heart did not bloom perfumed
And nerves stayed on high horses

Yesterday, day before, in an earlier birth
Sleep was smitten by consciousness.

Your sigh ate into me
Your tears unsettled me.

Once I smashed the ladders
The meadow smiled warmly.

I can not sing about you, but
Be my mind, respond just like this.

Cheers!

Words of a feather

2008-03-03T06:15:00.003+05:30

Some words come in pairs or groups.

Method in madness, rest and recuperation, the five Ws and H, the three Rs which aren't really all Rs, but still; and many more I can't think of just now, I am sure. In my life though, I think I have been chased by C words. Let's not go into commitment, the C word men are supposed to dread. But I had a lot of commitment to words that began with C, and they shaped my life to an extent.

Really. When I was an impressionable thirteen-year old, I read that chips, chocolates, cookies, cakes and carbonated drinks were bad for you and caused acne. So I didn't indulge in any of them. Of course, the real reason was to save pocket money to buy books, but boycotting them did take place. And I had a clear complexion throughout my teens, only to break out horrendously in my twenties. But by then the pattern was set. I added sugar and sweets to the list of things I didn't eat.

During the thirties one worries about calorie counting- carbohydrates, cholesterol, calcium deficiency and such. But since I had healthy eating habits and a routine of exercise, the thirties passed me by without troubling me with the C words.

(If you are going to write in and point out the other C word, cigarettes, or booze, save your breath. I will merely say piffle to you. I am not talking about vices here. I am talking about practicing virtues. And anyway, nicotine and alcohol do not count as C words.)

Then came the so-called arthritis last year. Through all the pain and discomfort, until a tentative diagnosis of 'undiff' connective tissue disorder was made, I looked back at my commitment to the C words. I didn't take sugar, I didn't eat deep-fried food, I exercised regularly, and yet here I was being treated for a disease I tried to avoid ever since I learnt about it. I thought it was unfair. Until the doctor pointed out that my very reasonable weight and good health was what kept me mobile instead of bedridden, considering the severity of the symptoms. Ah well, all in a good cause then.

Over the last four weeks, into my life came new C words. These are different from the avoidance and good health practices.

During my stay in the nursing home in January, my doctor ordered a bunch of tests. One of them was a GI endoscopy. It doesn't sound nice, and wasn't nice. The conclusions drawn from it weren't nice either.

Now it doesn't require a Mensa membership to figure out that hyperplasia isn’t a good thing. That was reinforced by the doctor asking for another, more extensive endoscopy. The findings there weren't nice either, and featured words like "hyperplasia of squamous epithelium…blah, blah, blah… focally bordering on Carcinoma 'in situ'."

The biopsy slides were sent for a second opinion from another pathologist. Like all of us who can Google, I am quickly well read on any given topic, so I took preemptive action. I went and got a tonsure, as carcinoma is generally followed by chemotherapy, after all.

As it happened, there was another C word in between, a CT scan. And that was when my aggravation with life began.

I hiccuped with laughter when I was first told, stop breathing, Missus Em. You know what he means, I told myself sternly and held my breath. After a zillion times of stopping breathing, I was injected with a dye. Or at least they tried to, once they found a vein. Then they found another, and another. Another zillion times of stopping breathing followed. The technician kept apologising for all the discomfort and pain they were causing me.

And he kept stroking my shaven head!

The pathologist who did the FNAC a couple of days later? He told me I was a model patient, very cooperative and wonderful. And he stroked my head too.

There won't be any surgery, said the surgeon, packing me off to a specialist for further treatment. And stroked my pate.

The oncologist I met was taken aback at my shaven head. There wasn't going to be chemotherapy, he said. We discussed treatment protocol and talked further. As he got up to see me out, he asked if I was satisfied with the plan. I grumbled that my beautiful tonsure was totally wasted.

Oh no, you look like a model, Missus Em, he assured me. Supermodel in size zero, sniggered the friend who accompanied me. Yeah, if wearing clothes three sizes too large is the rage this season, I retorted, looking daggers at her. But she is immune to my glowering. The oncologist, at least, didn't stroke my head.

Last week, I was admitted for observation. From the admitting doctor to the nurses who hooked me up to oxygen and other tubes, medical personnel seemed to find my shaven head irresistible.

Friends came visiting. One of them said I looked an absolute cherub. A C word. I grumbled that cherubs are fat babies, I am fifty years old and not fat. She ignored me. And stroked my head. Another friend entered the room, took one look at me and said, ooh, you look so cute, Lali. She stroked my head. Cute? Me?

As he discharged me and told me how to conduct my life at home, the oncologist patted my hand. Be a good girl, and follow my instructions, he said. I nodded, good girl I can live with. We arranged dates and times for reviews, and he took leave. And he stroked my head.

I'd rather liked being Missus Em, Supermodel.

Bah!

A caller tune and a story

2008-02-24T19:55:00.002+05:30

I am going through a phase of reading old favourites again. So there I was in the middle of reading Sripada Subramanya Sastry again- his autobiography, called anubahavaaloo jnaapkaloo', reminiscences. I have read the work many times before and Sastry always provides another angle to consider, another thing to ponder, every time I read him.

This time, I stopped at a particular usage. I came across it before, of course, in his books that somebody took on the aspect or avatar of Virabhadra. I always assumed, somewhat correctly, that somebody got hopping mad, blew a fuse and went nuclear and all that.

This time, I actually considered why Sastry used that particular phrase and that took me on a trip of searching memory and books that ended with a delightful coincidence.

See, when creation happened, the three aspects of it, Brahma, Vishnu and Siva, were bestowed with the power that would activate them and make them functional, the feminine principle. Mother Goddess completed them and made them what they were.

Well, Siva and Vishnu won a battle over the evil ne'er-do-wells and boasted about this to their better halves. Siva's feminine aspect took exception at not being credited and deserted him. Then after some aeons, gods managed to please Mother Goddess enough that she granted a boon that she would incarnate as a daughter to Daksha, and wed Siva.

Ah well. Siva by that time was an outcast god, tainted with being cursed to carry eternally the fifth skull of Brahma, which he beheaded in an argument. Not just that, he was a nomad, frequented cremation grounds and was generally uncouth. But Daksha duly begat Sati and she was given in marriage to Siva.

Then Daksha planned a major sacrifice, and invited everybody and his wife, omitting only this daughter and her husband. Sati attended the sacrifice nevertheless, was ignored and further had to listen to her husband being belittled.

She felt humiliated, insulted and outraged. She got mad, and got even by immolating herself in the sacrificial fire. Bad move, but still.

As if that wasn't enough to ruin the party, Siva learnt of this, plucked two hairs out of his matted locks and threw them to the ground, creating Virabhadra and Bhradrakali, who destroyed the sacrificial altar, scattered the invitees and beheaded Daksha.

That is the story of Virabhadra, a metaphor for destruction in a fit of temper, rather than just being furious. Sastry used the phrase, becoming avatar of Virabhadra, fittingly. He was describing how he rebelled against his brother's persecution and cut up the brother's favourite coat to shreds.

To digress a bit, I always feel awkward calling doctors on their mobiles. Doctors are busy people, and it feels an intrusion to call them. I prefer to make appointments and see them instead. But my doctor had asked me to call him at a certain time, so I didn't feel too awkward calling him on his mobile this time.

I can't be bothered to download ring tones, my phone has plenty to choose from, thank you very much, so downloading call tunes that will serenade people who call me until I answer is unthinkable. But I do hear songs people choose to play to their callers.

As my doctor took a while to answer, I heard a snatch of a song. It was in Bengali, with the usual dirge-like tune and soulful (that means the singer sounds like he or she will burst into tears soon) rendition. It wasn't Rabindra Sangeet, as far as I could tell. Once the business part of the call was out of the way, I asked my doctor about the tune. Oh, it is from the film, Maru Tirtha Hinglaj, he said. I thanked him and rang off.

I asked the Resident Bengali about it, and he said that it was a film adapted from an eponymous travelogue. It means 'oasis of Hinglaj', he said, it is one of the Shakti Peethas, an obscure one.

Now that made me smile. The Shakti Peethas came into being because of Siva's grief and rage and what happened after Virabhadra, you see?

After the destruction of Daksha's sacrifice, Siva took up the body of Sati, and depending on the version you read, either began a dance of grief and destruction or wandered all over the earth. If you subscribe to the dance version, Vishnu had to intervene to stop the universe coming to an untimely end, and did it by taking up his discus and cutting Sati's body to pieces. If you prefer the walkabout version, Vishnu followed Siva, and shot off pieces of Sati as and when he could with his bow.

Wherever a part of Sati fell, there came to be a Peetha, Tirtha or a place of divine power. Shakti is worshipped in all these places along with Siva. There are fifty-one of them, though Devi Bhagavata lists many more, where only insignificant parts of body fell, perhaps.

Hinglaj is the only Shakti Peetha in Pakistan, and didn't used to be visited much because of its remoteness and the hardship of travel. I remember reading about it a few years ago, now that I did some research.

Isn't it amazing and a wonderful coincidence that Sastry and Virabhadra and a chance question about a caller tune led to my finding out about this?

Cheers!

One thing I ask

2008-02-19T23:42:00.001+05:30

I know we spoke only a little while ago, but I haven't said all I wanted to. I never do, when we talk. I am writing because it is very important to me that you understand. Please keep your promise.

Promise me, I said. I knew my voice was breaking, I'd cry in a moment. And what if I don't, you asked. I heard the laugh in the voice, and could picture the smile. You will promise and keep the promise, but you can't stop teasing, can you?

It is not much I am asking for, am I? A few minutes of togetherness, just you and me; I am not demanding more, after all. Even this demand springs from our history, you know that.

We have years of history, after all. The years you toiled and I fretted about you, the days we spent worrying about each other, the few glorious times when we were together; they all shape this plea.

My shame and yours; my tragedies, yours; we couldn't stop talking those days, remember? You healed me; I like to think I healed you, too. You made me feel cherished and special. We only knew each other online, but we knew each other.

But of course, life intervenes. We are not meant to be together. Neither of us minds it, really, because what we have is different, special and precious.

I remember my first glimpse of you. I knew it was you, you sent me pictures. You were scanning the street and looked so young and vulnerable and adorable. Our eyes met because I stared pointedly at you, then I gestured, come into my parlour. I admired you walking, crossing the street and fell in love when you held open a door a doorman already did.

Just once, you know? I want us to be together. So I can rest my cheek on your shoulder. So I can feel your arms wrapping me in a hug. So I can feel your breath fan my face and I can reach up and pat your cheek or plant a kiss on that incredibly beautiful mouth. So I can cry and have safe haven of your embrace to do so.

Our lives are parallel lines, but let's meet at the seeming horizon once. I need you now.

Nine gems

2008-02-13T22:56:00.000+05:30

"pancha ratnas, he wants from me, " I smiled as I finished reading. "saadhinchenE O manasaa," I sang too. I admit I giggled and sniggered also. Five gems, he wanted.

"What is this about," he inquired. I explained that a famous blogger tagged me. "He wants you to write about the pancha ratnas?" he asked incredulously. "Is he a classical music buff? You only play one in its entirety, the rest you can only play snatches."

There are several versions of the five gems. The absolute five gems in Indian folk wisdom are diamonds, pearls, sapphires, rubies and emeralds (which tells you that you should take ancient wisdom with a pinch of salt, as pearls are organic after all, oh but they are precious, ah well).

There are other major things that come in fives, too. The five elements, the five colours, the five virgins (I refuse to talk further about them), the five senses of body and mind, the five lives, the five divisions of almanacs, the five metals… you get the drift.

I agreed with my husband, though. But when tagged to do anything that added up to five, I can count that high, thank you very much, my first thought is always Tyagaraja. The five brilliant encyclopaedic kritis in the five ghana ragas, the very definitions of how to render and develop them. True, I only learnt one of the five formally from a teacher. The Sri, endarO mahaanubhaavulu, but I picked up the others. There are notations in various books, there are renditions by artists, and there are recordings of the Aradhana Festival group singing to follow. You can learn them easy. I used Balamurali as my guide, but I never got around to learning VaraaLi. It always seemed beyond me.

But this is different. The big shot blogger tagged me to a five-fold post.

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

Now this is an invitation to go through my archives, wallow in my blog and inflict my favourites on poor unsuspecting readers all over again. Who am I to refuse?

Family: in my career of two years of blogging, I must have mentioned my family once or twice. I don’t make a big deal about them like mommy bloggers or other personal bloggers, but I do talk about my family, because that defines me too. This post of mine gives an insight into that.

Friends: I did talk about the art of making friends, the effort of keeping them, and the heartache of losing them too. I was a victim of parental disapproval when it came to making friends in school or college, and it tainted me. But I did make friends, and odd sort of friends, too.

Yourself: this was a toughie. The one time I presented myself naked and defenseless was when I wrote this post. It is the most honest thing I wrote.

Your love: ah, here I get an embarrassment of riches in choice, but I confine myself to just two posts. I once bragged that Araucaria loved me. He read the post and wrote and told me he did, so there. Though I did not have many readers then, or any feedback, I rather like this post I did about my career of reading.

Anything you like: see, asking for it, he was. But since I am a nice and harmless middle-aged person, I am confining myself to giving you links to some posts that I really enjoyed writing. I hated it when broadband died and so I moaned about it. I used to froth at the mouth about trees and environment too. My first ever rant on the blog was a major moment, too; people gaped in astonishment that nice Missus Em can be nasty, but there were times when I surpassed myself.

You say that is ten? I said I could count up to five reliably. After that, it gets murky. So sue me.

Cheers!

Let's Spend The Night Together

2008-02-06T21:13:00.000+05:30

We met for coffee and lunch
To talk and be together
We met in happy circumstance
And savoured each other.

Words flow easy, don't they,
And intimacy seems right
Perhaps I can lower my guard
Enough, anything can happen, it might.

Let us spend the night together,
See what we sow and what we reap
I could trust you enough to climax
And next to you, I might even fall asleep.

Cheers!

Perils of mental illness in New Zealand

2008-02-01T20:05:00.000+05:30

There is a reason why I cherish my husband. On a bleak day when I am feeling particularly miserable, he can make me laugh. This is part of a mail he forwarded.

Three friends from three far-flung corners of the globe corresponding and discussing, as senior citizens are wont to, ailments. Two of the friends have ailing wives undergoing treatment. The third had a few things to say:

One nasty thought that occurs to me is cost -- do you (all) have insurance to cover these things? As I commented before, the NZ health service is perhaps in rather better shape than the UK one, partly because you pay for visits to the doctor and for (part of the cost of) prescriptions, and also because there are good private hospitals that you can choose to go to for lesser ailments without any adverse consequences for your public entitlement; but it is underfunded for its purpose and there are consequent scandals. For instance, at the moment there is no paediatric oncologist in Wellington.

In Dunedin a few years ago, they hired, presumably in desperation, as head of psychiatry a fellow from South Africa who turned out later (if I remember correctly) to have murdered his wife; then, once here, he murdered her replacement. Then his son, also a psychiatrist I think, was found guilty of topping his spouse back in SA. I suppose it could be argued that they had hands-on experience of mental illness. There was also the supposedly Polish female psychiatrist (the name she was using was Linda Astor, not very Polish) who was employed here (in Lower Hutt, actually) and turned out -- after issuing a report that disastrously released some psychopath from detention -- to be neither a qualified psychiatrist nor female, but rather a former medical student, Polish to be sure, who is, as we now say, "transgender", and whose original name was quite different.

I sincerely hope none of my readers will need the services of a shrink while visiting or living in New Zealand.

Cheers!

Out damned spot!

2008-01-27T23:11:00.000+05:30

Thinking about you is like picking at a scab. You know you ought to leave it alone, let it heal and drop off by itself when it will.

You keep picking at it.

I think of the times your laughter sounded untrue, when you hurt me by comparing, unconscious that you were doing it. I think of the times when it was you all the way.

You keep picking at it, the scab.

Your nail works at the drying edges, trying to help it along to get off your skin. Your nail probes at the flap, seeking to loosen it and lift it, changing attack and angles and trying to find another edge to tackle.

I think of the time we were both devastated, or I thought we were. I was shattered. You said a callous thing. I wept then. More for the stranger that stood in front of me than the terrible loss I realised that was mine alone.

The nail finds a fleshy flap to break loose and the scab lifts. There is a thin trickle of blood from the unhealed flesh. The nail is encrusted with blood too.

I will go wash my hands; I will trim my nails short too. The blood will dry up. There will be another scab. There will be a paler patch of new skin and a scar until that fades into body and past.

There won't be more picking at it, though. I am shut of you.

Fever song

2008-01-22T12:45:00.000+05:30

The flurry of activity tapered off. Exhaustion, the fraught quality of the last few days and general malaise of the last month, fever and the tension of the last couple of hours all came crashing into me. The medicines they pumped through the IV channel must have kicked in, and I slept.

I woke to find a nurse injecting more medicines. I could feel the cool liquid entering the IV channel and flowing up my arm, but the nurse said it was my imagination. But it wasn't my imagination that felt every hair follicle present a scroll of grief and complaint as I turned over and cool air struck my skin. I drifted in and out of sleep.

Floating between sleep and a semi-trance, everything seemed strange. The smell of disinfectant as the room was swabbed stabbed me with a memory of a cognac praline melting in the warmth of my mouth. The sudden cold touch of a stethoscope made me gasp. The pressure cuff tightening on my arm made me queasy. I could hear blood thundering as the mercury dropped, and heaved a sigh as the cuff was removed. Eating a meal seemed to expend all the energy I gained by lying there doing nothing for days and days. I slept again.

Through the next few days, all I did was to lie there tethered to the bed by that drip. My universe shrank to the confines of the four walls. My sole connection with the world was the bell push I had to grope for and find on my left. Nurses administering medicines and eating insipid meals marked time for me. Play of light in my sky framed by the window marked day and night.

Then one midmorning, I found I was all slept out. The few adjustments of the bed, raising it or lowering it to get comfortable weren't enough; I needed to stretch my back. I sat up and stretched, and bent forward to grab my feet to stretch further. There was a windblown seedling clinging to the parapet of the building outside the window. A single banyan leaf. Behrman's masterpiece, I murmured.

Sitting up propped against the raised bed I watched pigeons strut, crows squabble and kites wheel in the little sky I had. Late afternoon sun turned a billow of spidersilk into a strand of diamonds and I watched it waft until the breezes picked up and it swung away from view. The halo effect of shafts of sunlight turning my fingers into stained glass paintings fascinated me for a while. I dozed again.

But sleep got scarce. Two hours and I was done. If I tried to read my eyes drifted shut and the story entered my dreams and made them strange. Authors and tales and interpretations got mixed up in my memories; Homer, Gemmell and Pratchett all retold the Trojan War in my dreams, all jumbled together.

Then sound crashed into my world. It was past three in the morning. Cuckoos and crows would be complaining back at home, on the shores of the Lake. But here there was a long blare of a horn and a pavement dog howling in protest.

That sounded familiar. Not the blare of the horn, but the cadence of the grumbling dog's howl reminded me of a song. I tried pinning it down. It was hard. At home I'd just rummage among my music or Google. I felt contemptuous of myself. Surely I could remember without such crutches?

P Susheela, I was fairly sure. I tried to play back the dog's grumble and the long blare of that horn resolved itself into a memory of a voice. T M Sounderarajan. Plaintively, yearningly calling a name and P Susheela replying in an echo. That was it.

I didn't know if the lights were on or off, if my eyes were open or shut tight. I travelled back in memory and bounced off various tangents. I knew where I was, though- in the Past. Line by line, phrase by musical phrase, image by image, slowly the song unfolded itself. The plaintive call and response and more, as I tried to remember all of it, the orchestral interludes, the humming, the poetry. I was certain I got the lyric right.

Now, what film? I didn't know or care. TMS and Susheela were enough to start with, and somehow I had the feeling it was a MGR film. MGR and Saroja Devi? Ah, that's who the Deepika girl reminds me of, Saroja Devi. Pretty. More important, who wrote it?

thennai vanaththinil unnai mugam thottu eNNaththai sonnavan vaadudgiren
eNNaththai sonnavan vaadugiren
un iru kaN pattu puN patta nenjaththil un pattu kai pada paadugiren

A voice said, are you all right? I didn't realise I was singing aloud and conducting the instrumental interludes with my hands. The nurse looked puzzled and nervous. It was the dog, I said, by way of explanation. She looked worried and repeated her question.

I am fine. I want to go home, I have to look up something, I said.

Cheers!

Patient Missus Em

2008-01-19T09:02:00.000+05:30

For those of you who were hoping I had 'softly and suddenly vanished away', this is bad news. I am back. As to why there was a longish by my standards break in posting, here's some explanation:

How soon can you admit yourself, dear? No ifs and buts, I notice.
It will take me a couple of hours to organise things.

Who is the patient?
I am.
Who is admitting you?
I am.
There are consent forms, things to sign…
I will sign them.
This is very irregular.
I know.

We will be giving you an IV channel.
Does it take six nurses to do that?
The junior sisters are here to learn…
I do not want to be a practice dummy, thank you.

Don't move please.
Then listen to me please, before you touch me again. You are trying to put clamps on my wrists and ankles, and those are the most painful parts of my anatomy. Tell me what you are going to do, and I will be prepared.
Make a fist.
I have.
Make a tighter fist.
I can't make a tighter fist. If I may suggest something, try to find a vein in the right arm, you can search all day on the left.

What is this?
Your tea.
But why have you given me cream crackers?
You are put down as diabetic on the chart.
I said I take my tea with no sugar and very little milk. That doesn't make me diabetic. Do you think I wouldn't state such an important thing when admitting myself?

Toast and tea for breakfast?
Yes, fine.
What is this? This bread isn't toasted. Where is the butter, jelly or jam? What is this white thing?
That is paneer. Butter is spread in the kitchen. Jelly isn't served.
Are you trying to starve me to death as you treat me?

I'd like to use the bathroom, please.
The ayah will get a bedpan.
No, I will go the bathroom.
Junior sister will carry the IV bottle.
Call your senior.
Sister will stand outside, with the drip.
It's not long enough, call your senior.
Hello, I am the RMO. What seems to be the problem?
I need to use the bathroom.
Sister, stop the drip. Let the patient finish and start it again. Oh, and get the portable IV stand.

Ah, my dear, are you all settled in and comfy? Sister, this is a patient very dear to my heart. South Indian lady, you know. Such a wonderful person. She puts up with so much pain, never complains. Such a pleasure to treat.

The nurses exchange a doubtful look and stare at the doctor and me as though we were Bug Eyed Monsters.

Cheers!

Really

2008-01-09T23:19:00.000+05:30

Every now and then Gmail informs me that so and so has added me to his or her contacts list and would like to chat with me. This confuses me.

I don't know them from Adam and Eve, so why would I want to chat with them? If they stumbled upon my blog in a strange fashion, surely they can mail me?

I do reply to mails, and if after some correspondence it turns out we have something to talk about, I'd be happy to add them to the list of pals I converse with. But a stranger (I know the person thinks I am not a stranger but still, it is a stranger) and a bolt out of the blue, asking to be added to my contacts frankly baffles me.

The thing is, I reply to mails, not these requests to add a contact, because correspondence establishes that they

a) are literate,
b) don't type gr8 and 4U,
c) have something to say,
d) don't ask for my number, vital statistics or rates per services and what services I do offer,
e) are entertaining and fun and do not indulge in multiple exclamation marks,

and then we can talk. I have made many friends online and most of them are dear and precious, but none of them started off adding me to their list of Gmail contacts and demanding they be allowed to know when I am online and chat with me.

Let us have a reason why we talk, after all.

Cheers!

One last sane moment

2008-01-07T22:53:00.000+05:30

This is goodbye.

No, it is not what you think. I rather like you, and that's why. I am afraid I will fall in love with you. You won't like that.

There is resonance and there is so much similarity it is scary. I can see myself falling in love with you.

My love is a grasping clinging all-pervasive thing. I'd get insecure if you so much as looked at another. My love and my world will be so full of you that there'd be no room for others, but I know you can't love me in the same way. You will talk to others, you will have a life beyond me, somebody will mention your name and I will get insanely jealous.

And neither of us wants that.

I will love you to the extent that my own self is subsumed in my love for you. That can be rather exhausting and you will chafe.

So I am stopping before I can get to those stages of devotion, longing and madness. I am quitting before you feel claustrophobic and shackled, before you will resent me and my helpless adoration. Because I am scared.

Escape while you can.

Arrow of time

2008-01-02T17:02:00.000+05:30

When I was crags and boulders
Your surf crashed against me

Aeons mellow us

Sandy beach now
And waves lapping gentle

Even now

Fault-line tsunami meteorite strike
Anything can happen.

The last weekend

2007-12-31T14:22:00.000+05:30

I must write my last post for the calendar year, I fret. The weekend has been lazy, to say the least. But unlike Granny Weatherwax, I do know decadent has nothing to do with having ten teeth, since Nanny Ogg would be unident then; I know it is more to do with not opening the curtains all day, as Granny suspects.

I hate winters. We never had them when I was a child, to start with. My first encounter with winter had me wrestling duty, conscience and a streak of self-preservation, which screamed 'go back to Madras' at me. But a few years in Delhi and even Calcutta winters will 'larn' you, as Huck Finn says.

So one learns indolence and basking in sunlight. One learns knitting, but that is another post. One learns the luxury of a good quilt, the reason why more children are conceived in winters and such fascinating things. One learns about winter vegetables and pigging out. One learns that the kitchen is a wonderfully warm place on cold dawns.

Add to this a couple of decades of experience. What comes up is a tendency to leave the geyser on, all the time, even while feeling guilty about using hot water to brush teeth and wondering what kind of hell such luxury will land you in, but preferring to be comfortable here and now.

I really should be writing, I think. The last weekend of the year should be blogged about, surely. But beer and late pasta lunch make for sleepiness.

This napping in the afternoons is a new thing for me. It started thanks to the side effects of the methotrexate therapy. Though the drug was discontinued, I continue napping. I slide under the quilt and consider what I want to say about the end of another year.

As I get comfortable, I consider that a short nap is not that much of a sin. It is practically an act of virtue, as I will wake up bright-eyed, and then I can write the post. My toes snuggle into the folds of the quilt, creating a warm burrow. I yawn and consider post ideas. One has to shrug a bit and wiggle around to get the quilt all nicely wrapped and it takes fine judgment to make a cocoon.

As years go, 2007 wasn’t all highs, there is that. The lows when they happened were spectacularly low. But it wasn't a bad year, really, was it?

Being diagnosed with 'undiff. connective tissue disorder,' also known as rheumatoid arthritis was a low. The severity of the onset was scary. While there's relief, the relapses and the evolving disease make one appreciate the bright points and highs all the better. I could talk about how life becomes centered on the affected joints.

I could write about how the last weekend was leftover lunch and reading; receiving a call from my bookshop about a book I might be interested in, going and getting it and reading. Oh, and beer and pasta. Wonderful things, weekends are.

I could write about that Rafi song that is haunting me now. Phir miloge kabhi. That's a brilliant song. I could write about my toyboys; music lessons or the latest Araucaria offering- Thomas Hardy novels and a huge grid.

Or I could write about how wonderful it is to see a new comment on a post I wrote early in my career of blogging, how it cheered me and made my day. Comments like that are what a blogger craves, and make blogging the pleasure it is.

I've spent most of what should have been a busy Monday falling in love with your blog. Only an ...erm... numskull of rare merit would stumble upon one of your posts and not feel the urge to keep reading.:-)

You'd better believe your posts are being read - oldest and otherwise. And with a great deal of enjoyment at that! Thank you, Missus Em.:-)

Egad! To think I might have missed you entirely if I hadn't Googled "Kshetrayya"! All right, so it wasn't a VERY busy Monday.:-)

I yawn again and close my eyes. Yes, I will write about the last weekend, but after the nap. I will wish the readers of my blog a very happy New Year, too.

Cheers!

Ten times six times two times five

2007-12-23T22:55:00.000+05:30

I was in trouble. Actually, I had been in trouble for a few weeks about this, what with my being unable to lift or shake it to stuff more coins into it. There was no help for it, but I had to sort the coins out of my piggy bank and exchange them.

It didn't help that the boys at my booze shop asked if I stopped collecting coins or if I was exchanging them elsewhere either. I wasn't. It was just that the so called piggy bank, or the aluminium box where I collected coins, was too full to take any more but I was in no position to lift it to sort the coins out. Now my wallet was getting weighed down by coins that I couldn't empty into the piggy bank, so I had to do something about it.

I used to empty it on the floor and sort the coins and stack them. Nowadays I dare not sit down on the floor. Not because I can't, but because of the trouble I'd have getting up. It has nothing to do with knees or flexibility but the fact that I can't use my palms to push myself up. My wrists aren't up to it.

We make do, needs must after all. So I spread a towel on the bed and emptied, with some effort, the contents of the piggy bank on to it. The first things to pick and put away were the ruby ring (don't ask) and the keys to a CPU we don't have anymore; then the dried marigolds from my favourite temple. Then I dealt with the coins.

Look, I can count up to ten. When there are Jumbo crosswords or long clues involved I can count even higher. But I don't like it.

So, there were piles on the towel on the bed. I was getting cross-eyed adding up. Variously, I arrived at totals of seven hundred and fifty, seventeen hundred and fifty, fifteen hundred and seventy and thirteen hundred and fifty. I turned to the resident expert.

"Honey, how much is ten times six times two times five?"

"Six hundred. But note that multiplication is associative."

"Whatever. So if I have got a stack of ten five Rupee coins in two columns of six each, it is six hundred Rupees?"

"Just tell me the stacks and denominations." He knows I am only grudgingly numerate, so he got straight to the point.

"I've got two Rupee coins in stacks of ten, five rows and five columns." I said despairingly.

"That's five hundred." He said confidently. My hero!

"Then there are these one Rupee coins, ten in a stack, five columns and eight rows." I bleated.

"That's four hundred." He said in a flash.

"How do I add the other stacks of coins that don't make round figures?" I wailed.

"Don't. Put them back in the box." He advised. "You've got fifteen hundred in small change and that is good enough."

Now, if I can only figure how to carry the coins to exchange them…

Cheers!

In praise of the monkey cap

2007-12-20T15:29:00.000+05:30

When people sneer about Bengalis, there is inevitably a mention of their winter attire and that accessory they sport, the monkey cap.

I wonder why? It is a perfectly sensible thing to wear if you are going for a morning walk in winter and the breezes are chilly. The monkey cap, as it is called here, is widely used in other parts of the world too. It is called a ski mask in America, a Balaclava helmet in other lands and was issued as standard winter gear for military forces.

Sweaters and pullovers keep you warm, but unless you are wearing a hoody your neck is always exposed to the cold. Mufflers and scarves are needed for this region and they are fussy. The monkey cap takes care of this. It covers the whole head and neck, including the ears, and in some varieties can be pulled up over the lower part of the face too. It is an ideal accessory.

Bikers wear them under their helmets to keep warm and to keep the inner lining of their helmets clean. Ski masks are fashionable. It makes sense to keep warm after all. So why sneer at the Bengali Babu with his monkey cap?

Oh, it must be the pompom.

Cheers!

All for the want of a horseshoe nail

2007-12-14T17:11:00.000+05:30

Our landline rang. He answered.

I was staring at a mail I received, cursing the day I wrote that post about classified columns and massage parlour ads. This sort of thing arrives regularly-

Hi,Lalita,

Found ur profile on the net. Please send a mail to confirm.....I'm
interestd in getting a message done by u.....Rply sun...

Sigh.

I missed out most of the one-sided conversation. My attention was only sparked when I heard him say he was sad to confess he does not fall in to the age category. Huh?

"Yes, I do have a son, but he is below your age limit and a student still." What on earth was this about?

"No, I do not rejoice in a son-in-law. Thank you, it was nice talking to you."

I shrugged. Like me, he is terminally polite when it comes to tele-marketers. They know not what they do, after all. He looked wistful as he rang off.

"What was that about, honey?"
"We have missed a bonanza, Lali."
"Hm?"

The call was from an insurance company, starting Kolkata operations. Our number came up in some random fashion, apparently.

"The offer was for accident insurance worth one hundred thousand Rupees, for ten years and no premium…"
"So what is the catch?"
"Just one condition. There should be a married male in the household, aged between twenty-five and forty-nine."
I laughed. "What a crazy condition."

I deleted the mail and dealt with the rest of my correspondence.

"Lali, your toyboys are all in their twenties, aren't they?"
"A toyboy, by definition, has to be in his twenties, honey," I said. "Most are, but some are older. Why?"
"I wonder if any are married."
"What are you getting at?"

He was still mulling over the offer, clearly. "I wonder if any of them would care to be a second husband…"
"But that's illegal." I laughed.
"Nah. Having two wives is illegal, not two husbands," he said, with a grin." And we could have had that accident cover…"

Cheers!

Evolution of an obsession

2007-12-13T17:53:00.000+05:30

Beefy type I'd seen by the beach kept in mind, but no source of inspiration (6,7)*

I remember the first ever English dictation I took in school. I got four out of five, and was bitter about it. I'd spelt bananas and monkey correctly. What I got wrong was floor. In my textbook, with the fonts, it looked like it was spelt Aoor; things were weird in English anyway, so that was how I spelt it.

I suspect my fascination with words began then. It was certainly helped along by Saradamba teacher. She taught Telugu, but used to supervise us when we wrote our end of term exams. She had an interesting way of keeping early finishers occupied and amused. She'd ask us to make lists of words ending with 'ight' or find as many words as we could from the word 'embarrassment'. I remember I'd found some eighty before the bell rang.

At home we'd play Lexicon, and that was great fun. I first played Scrabble in a hostel room in NIMHANS, and thought it a wonderful game. But crosswords hadn't appeared on my horizon yet. My father solved the Hindu crossword daily, but the one time I looked at the clues they read like so much nonsense that I shrugged and dropped it.

It was in Delhi that my interest in crosswords began. My husband never fails to remind me that when I saw him trying to solve the Times puzzle in The Statesman, I'd sneered and said, yeah, Daddy does them, too.

But this was before we were married, and when it is the love of your life that is doing it, you take an interest. From suggesting synonyms for words to taking a look at the clues was a small step. The first answer we arrived at was 'carnation'. I remember the definition was pink, and motors and races were involved. As I went to check synonyms in the Webster, I remember thinking this was fun.

As my first Delhi winter almost drove me back to Madras, what kept me going in the freezing evenings was the Times crossword. Those were days before home computers and the Internet, or conveniences like a desktop dictionary or Google. The Webster and the Encyclopaedia Britannica got a regular workout in the early days of my solving career.

Looking up words, checking synonyms, trying anagrams…it seems funny in retrospect, but I had no clue about solving crosswords. The hidden words, the anagram indicators, double definitions, written backward solutions, all were discovered slowly, and painstakingly. There was one memorable conversation one night:

"Come to bed, Lali. It is past midnight." "Yeah, just two clues left, honey." "You can check the solution tomorrow." "That's what I don't want to do." "You realise you are getting obsessed, don't you?" " Yeah, I know."

From celebrating five clues solved to fretting about five left unsolved before the next edition of the paper arrives was a journey. From completing the puzzle at all to completing it in half an hour took longer.

I took to the Internet solely to solve the Guardian puzzles online. When they became a subscription service, I used my credit card for the first time and online at that, to make the payment. When The Statesman stopped carrying the Times puzzle I stopped taking the paper and subscribed online.

Nowadays I do Daily Telegraph crosswords that The Telegraph carries, both the easy version and the cryptic puzzle, in the mornings. It never takes more than eight or ten minutes. When I go online, the first thing I do is to sign in at The Times Crossword Club. Concise and cryptic, the crosswords take me twenty minutes at the most. The Guardian puzzles come next. The weekly prize puzzles, Club Monthly and Genius puzzles might take longer, but these days I never have to spend longer than an hour on a puzzle.

Today, The Times site is undergoing maintenance. They hope to be back online by 12:00 PM GMT. I sighed and went on to the Guardian puzzles, and there was that gem by Paul. As I solved it, it occurred to me that I've come a long way indeed. Now to wait until the Times is back online… sigh.

Cheers!
* Carbon dioxide

Let's crib work

2007-12-08T23:45:00.000+05:30

Let's crib work, dear Reader, is an anagram of 'writer's block' and I am happy to report that I am not suffering from it. It is nice to be asked if I am all right, if the RA is acting up, or if I am suffering from writer's block. It is a week and you haven't posted, what's the matter, was the theme of several mails I received.

Actually, it is the RA. When it is bad, it is really bad. But today is not one of those days when things seem bleak. When opening a jam jar is a matter of triumph, one learns to tone down expectations. When you need two hands and a bit of unladylike mutters to open a door handle, an almirah, shoot a bolt, turn faucets, to … Oh, the list is endless, RA is not much fun.

But when I am having a good day we have fun, so we have a beer Saturday again, even though it is not the first Saturday of the month. When wrists and fingers are feeling reasonably limber and pain-free, I try and get as much done as possible. I have made a decent breakfast; touched base and caught up with news of my downstairs neighbour; gone to the bank, endured queues and failing monitors (don't ask); done my weekly market; cooked a big lunch. Time to down a beer and do crosswords.

"That bharta smelled glorious, I want lunch."

Sigh. In 1980, I was in Delhi visiting with my cousin. His landlord's cook and valet, Lakshman Ram, made a wonderful truly glorious eat and die happy kind of baingan bharta. I know many vegetables can be charcoal roasted, but none can be roasted like the brinjal, aubergine, eggplant, kathirikai, vankaya, baingan or begun (virtue-less, ha) as the Bongs call it. It is one of the most versatile vegetables ever. I have been trying to reproduce that particular taste of Lakshman Ram's ever since I started cooking.

Today I seem to have achieved it. "We really ought to be eating this with pulkas," he remarks. I agree and rue that RA means I cannot knead dough properly these days. I can't squeeze a lime or tamarind either, so my cooking is getting stilted, no rasams these days. But the bharta was almost there.

Beer and crosswords are the best way to spend a lazy winter weekend afternoon. And when the prize crossword in Guardian is set by Araucaria and every across clue has a coin mentioned but disregarded in the subsidiary clue, the heart soars. The Times crosswords, prize puzzle and the jumbos all done, I buckle down to the Araucaria.

Usually, there is there is a background drone of Emacspeak, and we work and play in silence other than that. Today, there is music. Live music at that. His student is here, sarod and all. The ragas flash by as they talk and jump from composition to composition. Phrases are explored, comparisons made; informal and formal, this is not a lesson teaching a composition or a raga, this is more. This is imparting a philosophy of music, technique and style. Perhaps that will come later, but right now it is talking about technique, queries about showcasing a raga with the dominant notes, more urgent worries about the use of the third finger in the upper octave or the dara or diri for any phrase.

I spare a glance from my musings about coins. "Look, it is not humanly possible to land the third finger straight, if you are using your nails that is," I say. It's true; on the sarod, which does not have frets like the veena, or even on the veena, it is not possible to land the third finger or fingernail on a note straight, it will always be at an angle. If you want to use three fingers, you have to be resigned to the fact. The student grins his thanks. The lesson goes on.

My phone rings. I am not anywhere near it, but I know the ring tone. It's an unknown number, but at least it is not Airtel telemarketing. So I answer.

"Hello."
"Madam I am calling from ICICI, can I offer you a credit card…"
"I have a credit card, thank you," I say and hang up. Hmm, the voice sounded familiar.

I wander into the room where a debate about the Puriya in Puriya Dhanasri and Puriya Kalyan rages. The phone rings again. "Again?" I say incredulously and go back to my phone. It is the same number. I will say things, I know. They will be variations on the theme of 'do you understand a simple word, no' and get worse from there.

"Lalita, it's me," says my toyboy. He is calling from his newly installed land line. "Since when have you begun moonlighting peddling credit cards?" I laugh once I get over the outrage. "I wanted to surprise you," he says. "But seriously, are you all right? You haven't updated the blog in ages."

These toyboys, I tell you.

Cheers!

Conan drums

2007-12-01T22:29:00.000+05:30

Well, why should he not? I have a few that puzzle me, too.

Why does the voice that tells me that the Vodafone number I have called is either switched off or cannot be reached and advises me to try again later sound so smug and deliriously glad at my predicament? Why can't they have recordings that sound matter of fact if not sympathetic?

***

"Lali, you remember my friend," he mentioned a name. I did. "He is corresponding with Kapil about…" There was a long explanation of some function or theorem and its impact on the narrow universe mathematicians inhabit. I tuned out mostly.

"Well, he was wondering if the name Kapil derives from or has something to do with Kapilavastu. He thinks 'vastu' or 'astu' used to mean a fortress."

I snorted. "Tell him he is talking through his hat." I considered. "He is thinking of root 'stha' but Kapilavastu is 'sta', and totally different. 'Vastu' is thing, article, nature and quality of. 'Stha' is fixed or unmoving and so on. Anyway, the word for fortress is 'durga'," I elaborated.

"What does Kapil mean, then?"

"Oh, 'kapila' means tawny, reddish brown. Monkey coloured, actually. But Kapil is probably named after Kapila the sage - the reason why Ganga flows on earth and why one of the synonyms for sea is 'saagara' and all that."

In Ramayana Vishvamitra narrates the story to Rama, telling him about his ancestors, and how Ganga came to flow on the earth.

Kapila was a sage; sometimes said to be an incarnation of Vishnu, sometimes the Narayana of the Nara-Narayana duo of sages. He was born of Kardama Prajapati and Devahuti. He was a scholar of Sankhya Yoga, which he taught his mother. After which he went to the nether world to meditate, probably because his mother threw him out.

At that time, Sagara, a king of the Solar Dynasty performed the horse sacrifice. As the sacrificial horse roamed the earth and all kings in its path accepted Sagara as overlord, Indra became worried about his position as chief of devas and stole the horse. He left it tethered near where Kaplia was meditating in the nether world.

Sagara had two wives. One, Kesini, had a son called Asamanjas, the unreasonable. The other, Sumati, had sixty thousand sons (don't ask). These sixty thousand went in search of the horse, found it near Kapila, and loudly, rudely made a fuss about it. Disturbed from his meditations Kapila opened his eyes, and there were sixty thousand heaps of ash next. Talk about hot tempers and short fuses.

Asamanjas had a son, Amsumaan, who propitiated the sage and recovered the horse, the sacrifice proceeded. Asamanjas the Unreasonable was crowned king and entrusted the job of securing a good afterlife for his burnt half-brothers. But he was a despot. So Sagara crowned Amsumaan king and retired, asking him to perform the last rites for his sixty thousand uncles. Amsumaan couldn't manage it in his lifetime. He passed on the responsibility to his son Bhagiratha.

Bhagiratha first prayed to Brahma and learned that only the sacred river Ganga that flowed in Svarga could redeem his ancestors. So he prayed to Ganga. Even if we ignore the time scales, the Puranas and Ramayana talk about thousands of years of penance, it must have taken some persistence, and Ganga agreed to descend to earth. But she said that her descent couldn't be withstood by any other than god Siva.

Prayer time. Siva agreed to take the brunt of Ganga's descent. So she leapt down. In a battle of sexes and muslce-flexing, she leapt with all her might and he taught her a lesson by imprisoning her in his matted hair, where she wandered trying to find a way out for a thousand years again.

Prayer time again. Siva let out a trickle of Ganga and she followed Bhagiratha. On their way to the nether world to wash over the sixty thousand heaps of ashes, Ganga inundated sage Jahnu's hermitage. He swallowed her up.

Once more, with feeling. Jahnu relented and let Ganga out through his ear (don't ask). At last, Bhagiratha managed to send his sixty thousand great uncles to a good afterlife. Ganga flowed on to meet the ocean. That is why Ganga is called Bhagirathi and Jahnavi, the sea is called 'saagara' and that is why a huge and determined effort is referred to as Bhagiratha's perseverance.

In the West, there is Herculean effort, and we have Bhagiratha's penance.

***

Another conundrum is why diacritical marks and other formatting gets lost when I copy paste the posts I write using Word. I am fed up with having to insert italics and hyperlinks and such all over again every time I post. This post will be dedicated to whomsoever can tell me why this happens and what I should do.

"The Vodafone number you have called cannot be reached. Please try again later, thank you." I intoned to myself as I tried once again. Instead of the infuriatingly cheerful and insensitive voice recording, I heard the phone ring.

"Yeah, hi Mom," said my son.

Cheers!

On poetry

2007-11-28T22:54:00.000+05:30

You need the tumultuous experience of lovemaking before you can undress the subject word by word, make love to the idea and get intimate; first with subtle caresses and considered words; then with ardour like surf on high tide, words pouring out because you have it, because you are there.

Repetuneitis

2007-11-26T22:45:00.000+05:30

Readers of Larking ought to give heartfelt thanks to The Telegraph, Calcutta. Really, I mean it. There I was, thinking through a serious post about how global warming relegated more serious issues and crises to the backburners.

I was going to tell you that overpopulation is a major worry in our present resource-starved world, and how governments are ignoring it. I had done research, come to conclusions and thought of solutions.

I was going to tell you that colonising space, mining the solar system are urgent needs of the day. I was going to tell you how world governments should pass fertility laws and control birthrates, how these laws should be enforced. I was going to tell you that reproducing should not be a right, but an earned privilege; that people with inherited diseases, incurable disorders mustn't be permitted to pass their genes on. I was going to tell you what problems might arise in implementing these laws and how to solve them.

I was going to rant about how we have plundered the planet and are edging close to a violent end, and how it would be a good riddance- there would arise other species that can thrive in the havoc we've wrought on the world; Earth goes on regardless. I was going to tell you that HIV and avian flu are nature's way of fighting back and ridding herself of pesky humans.

But The Telegraph came to your rescue.

In August I wrote about post ideas and how they are forgotten even if jotted down, and mentioned a post I was going to do on earworms. They must have read that. In September I wrote a guest post on SelAm, and talked about advertising jingles and earworms. They must have read that too.

They must have done the same research I did too, to quote James Kellaris. Well, we can all Google. Their supplement t2 doesn't seem to be available online. The paper version has a last page very wittily called Backpage, which has a feature, Funspace. They don't believe in spaces, clearly.

Today's Backpage and Funspace carried an article with the headline "Always on my mind" about earworms, quoting Kellaris' research. About earworms and advertising jingles, snatches of music that lodge themselves into the brain and refuse to vacate; ring tones, even though I think that is rather improbable.

What Missus Em thought three months ago, The Telegraph considers today. I rather expect they will carry an article about imposing fertility laws and controlling population in three months' time.

Somebody in their offices obviously follows my blog.

Cheers!

The many uses of toyboys

2007-11-21T20:40:00.000+05:30

"Why is everybody busy when I want to talk," I grumbled. Really, it's so unfair. It was imperative that I spend some time on the phone and nobody was available.

One friend was commuting and I could barely hear her over the traffic noise. I can hear plenty of horns out of my window; I don't need them from her phone too. Another didn't answer. I said a few unladylike things. A third was busy. Another was either switched off or unreachable.

I sighed and turned to my toyboys. I can rely on them to talk a while and amuse me. Ha! The first didn't answer. What is the world coming to? I called the Non Resident Mathematician. He didn't answer either, sigh.

Well, I could change the wallpaper and some settings on the phone then. Or send nasty text messages to these cruel lot. I was in the middle of composing a pithy message telling him what I thought of his insensitivity when the Non Resident Mathematician called back.

'Sorry, I was at the gym, " he said. "What is it? Why did you call?" I told him. He laughed. We chatted some five minutes and my purpose was achieved. I thanked him and rang off.

The next day the other toyboy called. "I was with some people," he explained. "Was it something important?" I said it was last night, but that it didn't matter now. "I called back later, but your phone was switched off."

I know, I said. "Tell me now," he said. I said I had needed to talk a while, but that was all right, I talked to my toyboy, it is okay, really.

"What do you mean you talked to your toyboy? I am your toyboy, dammit!" I clarified that I talked to the other toyboy. He sulked.

"Why did you need to talk? Why didn't you call again and talk to me?" I said it didn't matter, I just needed to talk to someone.

"About what, for heaven's sake?"

Nothing in particular, I said. I explained why I needed to talk to someone. "You are crazy, Lali," he declared flatly and hung up.

I was gobsmacked. I'd been charging my phone before the battery actually ran low all last week, as I needed to keep in touch and coordinate things. The indicator was showing minimal charge, but not the message. So I needed to talk until the 'battery low' message beeped before I charged my phone. That was all.

It is strange how people get offended when they hear the truth.

Cheers!

The impossible virgin

2007-11-20T10:45:00.000+05:30

No, this is not a post about Modesty Blaise novels, though I am a fan. The impossible virgin I am considering is Ahalya. Now, virgin is only one of the meanings of the word kanya, but it is irresistible, so sue me.

There are five women celebrated as the pancha kanya in Indian literature and oral tradition;

అహల్యా ద్రౌపదీ సీతా
తారా మండోదరీ తథా
పంచకన్యాః స్మరే న్నిత్యం
మహాపాతక నాశనం
(ahalyaa draupadee seetaa taaraa manDOdaree tathaa panchakanyaa smarE nnityam mahaapaataka naaSanam)

is a well known sloka, and Ahalya is the first of these five. If you consider the names and their stories, you have to wonder why they were designated. My own feeling is that it wasn't for virtue or chastity, for those change according to times and mores, but for their fortitude and strength of character and how they influenced events around them. Another thing to note is that with the exception of Draupadi, the other four are all characters from Ramayana.

In fairness, I must tell you there is a version of the sloka that counts Kunti as one ofthe five maidens named, and please thank me for not saying more about it (I dislike Kunti anyway). I am going to hold forth about other things.

Most of us know the story of Ahalya. Let me give a quick recap:

In Valmiki Ramayana, Vishvamitra narrated the story of Ahalya to Rama when they reached the sage Gautama's hermitage and Rama wondered why it was deserted. Indra came to Ahalya in the guise of her husband the sage Gautama. Although she knew it wasn't her husband, in her vanity, and because she was curious, because she was flattered by the attention, she let him seduce her. Gautama encountered Indra leaving the hermitage and cursed him to lose his testicles. He cursed Ahalya to be invisible to atone for her vanity, and live on air, until she was released from the curse by Rama's advent and left. Rama entered the hermitage, she was released from the curse, and Gautama took her back as his wife.

That is the bare-bones tale in Valmiki Ramayana.

There are many variations and embellishments added to the story in retelling. Each version of Ramayana written has another little snippet to add to the story. Considering that there are versions of Rama's story in Malaysia, Laos, Thailand, Bhutan and Sri Lanka; considering there are Jataka tales, Jain and Buddhist versions of the epic, vernacular translations, it is no wonder the story got embroidered.

The curse varies according to the version. Ahalya turns invisible, into a boulder or becomes dust. And in addition, she is cursed that her beauty will no longer be unique. Indra, on the other hand, has his testicles dropping off (necessitating what was probably the first transplant surgery, when the devas bestowed upon him the testicles of a ram); or is cursed that he shall have a thousand phalluses or vulvas all over his body (later mitigated to a thousand eyes), and has to forever fear for his position as the chief of devas.

Padma Purana says Ahalya became petrified, Adhyatma Ramayana says Gautama cursed her to be a boulder. There is mention of Ahalya's adultery in Kama Sutra, referring to Indra as ahalyaa jaara. More about that later.

In several versions Indra crows like a rooster so that Gautama, thinking it was dawn, goes to his ablutions and then Indra beds Ahalya.

In Kathasaritsagara, Indra turns himself into a cat as Gautama returns to the hermitage. When questioned by Gautama as to who entered their abode, Ahalya replies quite truthfully 'eso thiyo khu majjara'. (Esah stitah khalu majjaara, it was a cat that stood there) Kathasaritsagara was written in Prakrit, where 'majjara' is a distortion of 'marjaara', a cat, and 'ma + jaara' means my lover, too.

Apart from this interesting tidbit, Vettam Mani mentions how Ahalya was foster mother to Vali and Sugriva, but I am puzzled why he cites her as a princess of the Puru dynasty.

There is more about Ahalya's tale in the uttarakanda of Ramayana, which is a later addition to the epic solely to deify Rama. (Some scholars think even balakanda is a later addition.) Brahma created her as a paragon of beauty.

In the eighteenth century erotic classic ahalyaa sankrandanam, Samukham Venkata Krishnappa describes with great humour the arguments that broke out among the sages and devas in Indra's court as they tried to decide who among the celestial maidens was the most beautiful. The passage reads like a stag party. They asked Brahma to adjudicate. Brahma stated that all of the apsaras had some fault or other, and created Ahalya as a faultless beauty.

హలం నామేహ వైరూప్యం హల్యం త త్ప్రభవం భవేత్
యస్యా న విద్యతే హల్యం తే నాహల్యేతి విశ్రుతాః
(halam naa mE ha vairoopyam ta tprabhavam bhavEt
yasyaa na vidyatE halyam tE naahalyEti viSrutaa)

Halam, apart from being a plough, means distortion, defect or crookedness. Halyam is that which is distorted or in the case of a field, that which is ploughed. Ahalya is she who is without any defects. Though all devas desired her, Brahma bestowed Ahalya as handmaiden to the sage Gautama. She was later given in marriage to him. In Ananda Ramayana it is said that Gautama circumambulated a calving cow and thus earned the merit of circumambulating the three worlds, and won Ahalya's hand.

The story can be viewed from many angles. I am not going to dwell on the patriarchal societies, or feminist viewpoints. I am not going to talk about temptation or fall from grace and virtue, and redemption; all these have been done before, by others.

In taittiriya and brihadaranyaka upanishads there are invocations to Indra addressing him as ahalyaayai jaara. Ahalya means several things. The clearest is, a tract that can not be cultivated, land that cannot be ploughed, wilderness, soil unsuited to cultivation and, (sigh), and saline tract. Indra, as chief of devas is the lord of rains and thunder, and seasons. So the liaison is allegory of land being made arable and fertile. Thus is Indra ahalyaa jaara.

Indra's seduction of Ahalya is night being overtaken by sunrise. Aha means daylight, aha rliyatE syaam and so on, and hence Indra is called Ahalya's paramour, says Kumaarila Bhatta, in his commentary. Yet another explanation of that invocation is that Ahalya is vaak, that is sound, and Indra, one who conjoins vowels and consonants into coherent speech.

Whether viewed as allegory or just a tale, Ahalya's story caught the fancy of many poets. Apart from ahalyaa sankrandanam, there are several other retellings of the story, often with further detail. As times and moral climate changed, Ahalya was made an innocent victim, not a willing adulteress. In most Ramayanas in Telugu, Ahalya is a victim of deception, but in Ranganatha Ramayana, she bore Vali and Sugriva to Indra and Surya and bestowed her favours freely and was a serial adulteress.

When we were discussing this, chastity and virtue and social mores, Chenthil told me that in Kamba Ramayana Ahalya was portrayed as a victim of Indra's deception. He also said that the tale has been extended in a different viewpoint by a modern Tamil author. I demanded a translation, pronto, so I can have one more Ahalya tale, and this promises to be a cracker. How many authors can conceive of Ahalya turning back to stone in disgust after she hears that Rama made Sita undergo an ordeal by fire? Your turn, Chenthil.

Cheers!

Tum mujhe yun bhula na paoge

2007-11-12T22:57:00.000+05:30

It is over.

I stare at the message and wonder why you chose to send it.

I am not deaf or blind, I'd known it was over for sometime now. Your voice body language growing distance said as much in the last few weeks. I knew it when you shifted uncomfortably when I sat close. I knew it when you didn't smile when they played our song. I knew it when your calls grew short and letters shorter.

Why would you send this message? I am not stupid, I protested once, when you teased me about something. You tweaked my nose and said no, I wasn't stupid, just silly sometimes. There is a message in the message, then.

You could have told me face to face, when we met last when I bit your shoulder when you moved away and slept out of my encircling arms. I had known. You could have spoken but you just left.

You don't want me to call or mail or send you messages. You don't want me to ask questions. You don't want to explain. I did send some mails last week, left messages that you didn't respond to, made calls you didn't answer. Now this. You are telling me to leave you alone; it is over, and that is that. You could have spoken words. You didn't.

I won't cry over this. I knew you would leave some day, I didn't know you would leave like this, with this terse message. It is over. I won't call. Not now. I won't write. No silly messages with private jokes, our private endearments and pet names. Not now. When love is over, all that is left is pride. I will cling to it.

My thoughts swirl and images form in my mind that threaten to overwhelm me. I bite my lip. I picture you deleting my name from your contact lists, my number from your phone. Will you erase all traces of me? Will you read once again all those hours of chats before you delete them and those hundreds of mails, excising me from your life?

You can delete me from your life, can you delete me from your memories? Can you forget that scented evening when we walked arms around each other? It was cool. I shivered and you wrapped me in a bear hug. Can you forget that? Won't the surf and sands of that beach where we first met evoke me the next time you walk that path with another? Will I be a stranger when we run into each other?

There was a time when we thought incessantly of each other and lived for the moments we met. It is done with, but can you wipe those memories away? Won't a thought of me cross your mind when you hear our song?

I blink my tears away and delete your message. You won't forget me that easily.

Sigh!

Doing nothing with an immense success

2007-11-10T20:55:00.000+05:30

You are being boringly good, I complained to my toyboy. He was unmoved. Come on, go out and find a girl to dance with, I chided. He laughed and said he was working, studying even. I sighed. He is turning into a workaholic.

As I rang off, I stopped to consider my situation. What do I do? Nothing. But as Kipling says, doing 'nothing with an immense success' is what I am good at. So I suppose I am thriving. There are many things I am not going to write about.

There's Paul's crossword on Thursday, with a sly twist, where the solutions were anagrams of a one-word clue and an anagram indicator. Wand? (5,4) Disease?(7,6) Acts? (4, 6) Satchmo? (7,5), and so on. False dawn, seaside resort, cast adrift, and stomach upset; but who cares or wants to read about it, eh?

There's Brendan's offering on Friday, of authors and books. I could do a post called 'one for the books' or 'author, author'. It is not an easy thing to compile a puzzle so that each of the twenty-six solutions is an author's name or a title. I won't write about it.

There is the question why I bother with the poetry blog at all, considering I haven't posted a poem in more than two months. Well, it was supposed to be where I published my old stuff, but the old stuff seems pathetic and so on and so forth, alas. So I won't write about it.

I could write a pro bono publico post to educate poor misguided individuals who use multiple exclamation marks about the redundancy of it, or hold forth about ellipses again. Don't use those three dots if you don't know what they stand for, I could say. But I won't.

There's my eternal grouse, that of any blogger, about comments. I would be in a state of panic if some hundred people commented on anything I wrote, to tell you the truth, but it makes a nice dream and an item for a wish list if I ever get silly enough to compile one. There is the wish list post, too. Of all the things I want but can't get my hands on, of all the things I wish I could do and more. I am not going to write that either.

There's the matter of unsent letters, too. Letters I wrote and never mailed, either by snail-mail or the other option. The letter to Tabitha King, for instance, after I read One on One. I really ought to mail her. Or post it on the blog. But I won't.

There's the gnashing of teeth when I read bloggers who talk about their personal lives in excruciating, nauseating detail, too. But I am a nice person, so I exit the blog, never go back and leave it at that. I won't write about it.

There's the choice of writing an open letter to all the people I am playing Scrabble with on facebook. Dear people I play Scrabble on facebook with, I don't mind losing. I lose most of the time, actually. I mind having inactive games. I mind having to nudge you and plead with you to make your word. Just play your turn, will you? But I won't write that either.

I am refraining from writing about any of these things. I am not even going to crow about solving today's weekly Prize puzzle by Araucaria in one go, and online. Like Kim, I am going to revel in doing nothing with an immense success. I am going to bed.

Cheers!

The eyes have it

2007-11-08T16:26:00.000+05:30

There is something in Dirk Gently's theory of fundamental interconnectedness of everything, I mused as I searched among my music. It began with my lending library. And the kind assistant who pointed out a book I might want to read. And one thing led to another.

I am indebted to Edward Luce, really. I was so irritated by his assertion that the Grand Trunk Road bisected the country north to south that I read Kim again. Kipling is an author you can read again and again, especially the Jungle Book.

That led to musing about idiom and how it gets exotic in translation. That led to Rafi and a lovely song. Call me a maudlin idiot, but I am a sucker for Rafi and love songs. But what reminded me of Rafi and his immortal songs is an interesting thing. Ever tried to free-associate reading Kipling, have you? I have.

It is a miracle how Kipling manages to capture vernacular and nuances. There is a passage, when Kim meets up with the lama again, and the old lady of Saharunpore asks of his comings and goings….

"…as much as may be without shame. How many maids, and whose wives, hang upon thy eyelashes?"

That got me thinking. Hanging upon eyelashes? It is peculiarly Indian idiom rendered into English and made exotic thereby. I will hold you in my eyes and look after you, is a promise in Telugu. Apple of the eye is well known idiom. But hang upon eyelashes? Where did I hear this before? Then I remembered where I came across that phrase. Teri ankhon ke sivaa duniya mein rakha kya hai. It is a brilliant song, sung perfectly.

I like sappy songs. Declarations of love and songs of obsession, devotion and infatuation, in Rafi's voice, acquire an extra dimension. It was in teri ankhon ke sivaa that I first heard that expression, palkon ke taley. Later I heard jalte hain jis ke liye, and there is mention of palkon ke taley there too.

As I heard the song over and over, scribbling a rough translation, I marvelled at how I came to listen to it this time. Edward Luce, Kipling and Majrooh seem so disconnected after all.

What else is in the world but your eyes?

When you raise them it dawns
Lower them and dusk falls
My life and death hang upon your eyelashes

In their sights they hold visages of
Laughter in spring times
All cities of my dreams dwell therein

Look up and it is day
Lower your eyes, it is eventide
My life and death hang upon your eyelashes

In these eyes are images of my future
In kohl of desire
Is written my destiny

Lift your eyes, it is morn
Lower them, it is twilight
My life and death hang upon your eyelashes

What else is in the world but your eyes?

Go ahead, call me a romantic fool, but I love the song.

Cheers!

Province of knowledge

2007-11-05T18:18:00.000+05:30

"Sleep with grimiest of violent idiots."

No, it is not advice, recommendation or exhortation. It is what happens when I have to wait a month to post about a crossword I solved. I ended up doing anagrams of the part of the quotation that formed special instruction to Guardian's October Genius puzzle. I've more horrendous ones, and you can thank me for not inflicting them on you.

Genius puzzles are generally tough to crack, and Lavatch is a good compiler. When the special instructions, which usually accompany such puzzles, state that

10 17 12 18: this principle applies to ten clues in the manner to be determined. Other clues are normal,

my heart soars.

When I am asked to give lessons in solving cryptic crosswords, all I can say is, it requires practice, memory and diligence. More, it requires a cussed-ness of mind that won't let one shrug and move on to other things. A good vocabulary helps, as does a handy Roget's, and treating words in clues as instructions. I told a friend recently that I could possibly explain how I solved a crossword, but it would entail some two hundred words or more to explain how I arrive at one solution. It is some free association, thinking about definitions, other meanings of words and more. Experience helps too.

It is not as though I get the solutions instantaneously, not as such. Some solutions do leap out, others have to be worked out, yet others guessed at and checked. Solving a cryptic crossword is never a straightforward 'start at one across, go through the numbers' affair, even if the quick or concise puzzles sometimes are.

10 17 12 18: So primitive, with little good sense if rambling, according to 13(2,2,3,9,2,6,2,6)
13: What? Son's partner gets married in unappealing locations (6)

A thirty-four letter long solution that needs another solution for clarification! I remember actually rubbing my hands together in anticipation.

Now Lavatch is as tricky as they get. Not only did I have to figure out what the long clue states and how it ties in with 13 across, I still had to figure out which ten of the clues the rule applied to. The good thing was that that was all, no further tinkering was required.

I solved the obvious ones first; then tentatively pencilled in what seemed the right solution, never mind I didn't know why yet. The grid was such that the longest clues were only thirteen squares, and there was only one thirteen letter long clue… it was frustrating. I mean, I thought 7 down was psalm.

I forgot to mention, a lot of charity for him (5)

But why? Then light shone. PS, for postscript, most of alms for charity- him as homophone for hymn. Eureka moment indeed.

So 13 would be m for married, in unappealing locations which are dives or hmm, holes… Holmes. What? Son's partner as Watson's partner, yeah, but is it Sherlock Holmes? Somebody else? What did Sherlock Holmes say, when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever, however improbable and all that? That doesn't fit with the thirty-four letters… Wait, it is an anagram, that rambling is an anagram indicator. Let's see: two, two, three- first approximation: it is the? And what letters are left? Wait. Solve some others.

See? It is easier to solve a clue than to write about how the solution is arrived at.

Hips and hands going down?(9)
Firm prohibitions for following tense male reptiles (10)

Ha! Shipwreck and here is a beauty, thecodonts.

That gives a w and an o in the first six-letter part of the clue. Hmm, think. It is the something of something…to? By? At? In? Let's try the anagram out. Much crossing out later, I crosschecked the solution. It is the privilege of wisdom to listen.

It is the province of knowledge to speak and it is the privilege of wisdom to listen.
- Oliver Wendell Holmes, Senior.

So which are the other homophones?

Sea in Spain's extremely pretty (4) see, espy
Students find it hard; it is shown by marks…(5,8) Marx, class struggle
Spooner's to adjust curtain that's whole (7) hole, pitfall
Woman with northern fare (4) fair, even
Roe deer ultimately second to game (4) row, tier
Sick novelist overturned ice pots (7) eye-spots, ocelli
Rule a hooligan must mount no bull (5) noble, boyar

Plant boy left on list, say (7)
This was really sneaky. Heel is a synonym of list. Heal is the homophone. The solution is allheal.

And here was the real toughie,
Made Serena strain terribly, clutching pen, to get a little education (13)

I kept thinking in 'made' and 'maid' terms, and it didn't help to consider Serena Williams and her grunting either. Terribly is the anagram indicator. An anagram of strain around quill and Ed for little education-- tranquillised and the homophone here was 'serener'. Sneaky, I tell you.

Thus it is the province of Missus Em to tell you all about it. And this month's Genius by Locum is even sneakier, and I have to wait a whole month before I can crow about it, alas.

Cheers!

Dilbar dil se pyaare

2007-11-01T20:29:00.000+05:30

"Dilbar haan dilbar," I murmured.

"Not that song again," you groaned. "Yes, that song again," I teased, breathing the words against the column of your neck. I know that behind the mock exasperation there is a fondness. You like me singing that to you. It is our song. It's an unabashed declaration of being totally smitten. I am.

"Saari duniya haari hum se hum tujh pe dil haare," I sing at you. It is true too. I lost my heart to you strangely, all at once and nothing first. You said something and I was instantly in love. In all the time I have known you I never had cause to regret losing my heart to you.

"Gehri nainon waale," I sing at you. I could lose myself gazing into your eyes. Your glance scalds me, burns me and brands me sometimes and I blush. My own glances must mean something, since you flush too. Then you look at me so tenderly that my eyes brim with tears, I feel exultant and humble at the same time.

Like Aruna Irani in the film, I call you 'mere garam masale' once in a while. You laugh. "Which one," you asked once. I considered that. Spices are flavouring. They add additional notes to the song of a dish. What spice are you?

Not ginger or garlic, though you do bring pungency of desire. Not cardamom or cloves, though you add fragrance and fire. Not cinnamon though there is fragrance fire and pungency all there. Not cumin and coriander either, flavourful but too common.

Your smile brightens my days. Your voice gladdens me. Your presence is haven. Beside me or away from me, the idea of you brings joy. What spice are you? Spices enhance the flavour of food without masking the natural taste, but they aren't essential. Are you melange?

Then I thought that all these spices are seeds, pods, fruit, bark or resins, they grow out of earth. They enhance, yes, but they are not necessary, or vital. There is something else that is absolutely vital- of the earth, no the earth itself- salt.

Did you know that people die if deprived of salt? It is essential for life. Salt preserves food. It kick-started civilisation. It is vital for lives. It is not a spice, it maybe called a seasoning, or an additive, but it is a necessity.

You don't just enhance my life. You give it meaning. You are not a spice. You are a necessity. You rejuvenate me, you imbue joy into each minute of life. You are salt.

"Dilbar dil se pyaare," I murmured. Your mouth curved in a smile against my neck in silent acknowledgement.

Cheers!

Your balcony, my balcony

2007-10-29T21:04:00.000+05:30

I wake up early these days, just to watch you. These days I have a cup of tea by my side, too. I like drinking tea watching you drink tea. I think it is tea you drink, not coffee.

The nurses grumble and think I am a petulant and difficult patient. They don't know that seeing you potter around early mornings is my therapy. Watching you is my private medicine.

I remember the first time I saw you. I was in pain. Couldn't sleep. They wheeled me to the balcony. It didn't matter where I was, as long as I was away from that ghastly hospital bed they got me. It wasn't dawn yet. I'd never been up that early, I'd never been in the balcony at that time. My discomfort made everything look grey.

The door to your balcony opened and you stepped out, that huge mug in your hand. An old fashioned two-storied house separates our apartment buildings and I am a couple of floors higher. There was something in the way you leaned, elbows on the parapet that caught my attention.

You looked fresh and wide-awake. I resented that. How can anyone look so cheerful this early in the morning, I thought. You pottered around, fetching a spray can and washing the leaves of all the potted plants. Watching you, I forgot pain and discomfort for a while.

Now I know you always look like that, like you will break into a smile any moment. When you stroke the plants, when you stare into the distance. I wonder what you are thinking of to look so serene and happy.

There are a lot of potted plants on your balcony. Mine is bare. You talk to the plants, stroke them. I wonder what you say to them. I feel tense when you wander in, but tell myself you will be back, as you left that mug on the parapet. You do, carrying an ashtray. There are so many plants, you could flick ash into any pot, but you use an ashtray. I find that endearing.

I watched for you at other times of the day. I suppose you work, because I never see you during the day. Sometimes you wander into the balcony in the evenings. I like to look out for that. You look different in jeans. The leisurely morning mood, when you talk to the plants and sip tea is replaced by a briskness in the evenings.

You are always alone. No one joins you at these times, early morning, sun yet to rise moments or in the evenings. That must be a three bedroom flat, yet I think you live alone. How do you look so content if you are alone?

Once in a while you look down at something, and a flash of annoyance crosses your face. What is it that irks you, I wonder. I won't know. Like you don't know that I share your mornings. You don't know me, but I know the private moments of your life when you think you are alone.

You kissed that plant before plucking fresh chillies from it. Were you saying sorry or thanks? I saw you pull something up from a pot once. Weeding, I thought. You brought out a seedling pot and carefully potted that alien seedling. I see you tending it. It looks like neem. You could have thrown it away; it was a weed, a cuckoo in the nest. But you care for it. It is growing vigorously.

I am mending too. I can hobble a bit now, and wheel myself into the balcony. Soon I won't need this wheelchair. I will go back to my previous life then. I think I will still need to see you drinking tea in the mornings.

Who are you? Why do I need you? I think I will get a few plants.

Cheers!

Six impossible things before breakfast

2007-10-27T09:30:00.000+05:30

It's one of those days. You can't decide what you want to read. There is consideration these days about the size of the book too. Fat and heavy books daunt me nowadays; I have to wonder if my wrists can manage the weight.

The book came highly recommended, with William Dalrymple and Amartya Sen heaping praises on it, in the back blurbs.

Dalrymple said, "In Spite of the Gods is without question the best book yet written on the New India: witty, clear and accessible yet minutely researched and confidently authoritative. Edward Luce has proved himself an affectionate and unusually perceptive observer of the Indian scene."

I generally take such recommendations with a pinch of salt, but the next one was from Professor Amartya Sen, a marvel of a poorly written recco.

"In Spite of the Gods is not only fun to read, it is also a deeply insightful account of contemporary India. Based on the author's rare combination of intimacy and detachment, the book can serve, remarkably enough, both as a fine introduction for outsiders and as a mature scrutiny that is bound to stimulate insiders."

Even after that, I waded through the 25 pages of introduction. I tell you, I am the persevering sort. But there is always a last straw. For me, after that interminable preface and introduction, the straw was the third sentence in the first chapter. How can I believe anything this man says when he writes:

"It took a long time. But finally, in the late 1990s, India started to build roads which could get you from A to B at something better than a canter. Until then, India's most significant highway was the Grand Trunk Road that bisects the country from north to south."

Dalrymple says this was minutely researched. Indeed. After gnashing my teeth, I read further.

"Laid at various stages by the late medieval Mughal dynasty, then upgraded and extended by the British in the nineteenth century and popularised by Rudyard Kipling in his novel Kim, most of the 'GT Road', as it is known, got acquainted with asphalt only after independence. But it is single lane and one can rarely exceed an average speed of thirty miles an hour."

If the author is on record that the Grand Trunk Road bisected the country north to south and no sub-editor thought or chose to correct him, do I want to read further about what he thinks of 'The Strange Rise of Modern India'?

What further gross assumptions does he make, and do I want to wear my teeth out reading them? That Kipling and Kim 'popularised' the Grand Trunk Road? That National Highways did not exist till the Golden Quadrilateral project? That double-lane highways did not exist in India before this? So I did my car trips from Madras to Rishi Valley driving on dirt tracks with ruts of bullock carts, did I?

I gritted my teeth through the introduction and hibiscus juice, but this? Thank you, no. Oh, and happy birthday, Kalyan.

Cheers!

Wow! wow! wow!

2007-10-21T20:15:00.000+05:30

"I don't believe that," I said flatly. He was encroaching on my territory, after all. "No, really," he said. "So tell me, and I will check," I said. If the mongoose family motto is 'Run and find out', my family crest, if I ever get one, will have the words 'Verify, cross-check' on it.

Look, if we are talking about words and word games, I am the resident expert, okay? I take his help if I run out of fingers and toes to add numbers, and he asks me how many esses there are in obsession and that is all as it should be. But instead of showing a healthy dose of aibohphobia as befits a non-enthusiast, he was claiming he knew a palindrome I didn't.

Palindromes always remind me of Budugu's dilemma. A Dennis the Menace like character created by Mullapudi Venkataramana, Budugu once gets puzzled about how to carry out a task his uncle set him. To watch out for girls coming down the street and call his uncle is all very well, but how do you tell if they are coming or going if the girls wear their hair in two plaits, and have one over the shoulder? Palindromes are like that. They read the same coming or going.

Palindromes have always fascinated people. Okay, I will amend that; they fascinate people who are interested in words. There were palindrome graffiti found scratched on ancient monuments. There is something pleasing about palindromes with their symmetry, and in the case of the longer ones, the humour and aptness. Telugu poets have written palindromic poems.

Palindromes in Indian languages are different from those in English, though. While Malayalam might be a palindrome everybody knows, written in any Indic language it won't be one. Vikatakavi is a palindrome Indians know and chuckle about, but it is not a palindrome in English script.

Before we consider the longer ones, let's first see how many words in daily life and usage are palindromes that we are unaware of. Bob, civic, level, radar, rotor, rotator, tenet, and so on. Linguist Richard Lederer says 'wow' is the perfect palindrome. The letters are symmetrical, and it is a palindrome read upside down too.

There are some words that make other words when read backwards: evil-live, draw- ward, reviled-deliver, stressed-dessert, ergo-ogre, recap-pacer, straw-warts and so on. Oh and Dennis-sinned, and as two words it's a palindrome, too. Like aibohphobia, there is a term coined for these words- semordnilap, which is just palindromes written backwards.

While everybody knows some of the famous longer palindromes, there are some that are obscure, and only enthusiasts know them. 'Madam I'm Adam', is a well-known palindrome. So is 'A man, a plan, a canal, Panama!' 'Able was I ere I saw Elba', is another.

Less well-known are: 'Panic in a Titanic, I nap'. 'Name no one man'. 'Niagara, O roar again!' Or Lederer's favourite construction, 'Go hang a salami. I’m a lasagna hog'. The newer ' A Toyota's a Toyota' and again by Lederer, 'Pepsi is pep'.

There are philosophical questions like 'Do geese see God?' There are pious declarations like that lady banished from Queen Elizabeth's court adopted, 'Ablata at alba' (banished but blameless).

You see? I know a little about palindromes, and he was saying he knew a 51 letter palindrome constructed by Peter Hilton, one of his professors at Cornell. Mathematicians should stick to their lemmas and leave dilemmas of word games to other people. Instead, there they go, trespassing on others' territories. But when mathematicians play, they work at it too, I found.

This is the palindrome
That the Resident Mathematician said
That his professor constructed
That he recited from memory
That I verified and saw
That it read true
That is brilliant
That kills my notion that mathematicians should leave word games alone
All in the house that Jack built, as it were.

'Doc note, I dissent. A fast never prevents a fatness. I diet on cod.'

Cheers!

I want to hold your hand

2007-10-15T15:11:00.000+05:30

"Does it hurt," you asked. I looked at my hand engulfed in yours. My hand seemed so small and fragile there, nestling between your hands.

You held your hand out that first time remember? Open, palm up and leaving it up to me to give my hand. I thought with some amusement that men must take lessons. My first boyfriend had held his hand out exactly like that too.

I remember how we sat decorously apart. Sitting side by side, staring at the sea. I sat with my knees drawn up, forearm around them, trickling sand through the fingers of the other. We exchanged sidelong glances once in a while. There was his hand on the sand between us. Open, palm up. I slid mine into it. We continued staring at the sea.

Later, we played, doodling messages on the other's palm, silly endearments and questions we were too shy to voice. But I still remember that hand, lying open on the sand, waiting. It asked, without asking. Holding hands is in a way more intimate than other intimacies.

I remember when you held my hand first. Your hand was warm, big and gentle. You stroked my fingers then too. Not looking at each other yet, hand in hand, pressure returning pressure, squeeze responding with squeeze, world reduced to that connection, our hands twining together. No need for words just then. A glance and a smile and all that needed saying said, without words.

There was that day when you drew me close. Nestling against your shoulder with your arm around me, I felt small and safe. When your hand cupped my cheek and you dropped that fleeting kiss, it burned a brand in my memory with its gentleness.

You looked at me with such tenderness, an indulgent adult at a dear toddler. You leaned forward once, to cup my face and give it a fond shake. I protested that I wasn't a child. Your smile said you thought otherwise.

My hand seemed so small and fragile there, nestling between your hands. You patted it, gentling it like you would a kitten or a baby bird. "You have become too thin," you accused, as thumb and forefinger circled my wrist. You gripped both hands in one and looked upset. "See."

"Does it hurt," you asked. I looked at my hand engulfed in yours. No, dear one, I thought. It doesn't hurt. Not when you hold my hand like that.

Cheers!

The train you intended to board

2007-10-12T16:39:00.000+05:30

There is immortality of a sort in being quoted. When the origin of the quote is forgotten and the lines pass into collective vocabulary, the author lives on in his words. Shakespeare comes to mind. There are so many things we say to sum up a situation that are his words. That it should come to this. What's in a name? The list is endless.

A line from my father's work, TvamEvaaham is one such. "The train you intended to board is always a lifetime late."

I grew up with the work, but first read it fully when it was published for the third time in 1971. It was written in July 1948, and was published in 'Telugu Swatantra' in 1949. It was published again in 1962, with a prologue, Avahana, and annotations, an explanation and commentary by Dasarathi and Sri Sri added. It needed them; it was criticised for being incomprehensible and infuriatingly obscure.

All that didn't matter to me. I read it for the flow, and the images that the lines conjured, and because my father wrote it. Whether it was a controversial work, a masterpiece or political commentary was immaterial; I read it for the lessons it gave on combining technique with content, integrating style with substance. I have read TvamEvaaham many times since. It might have been written about the Razakar atrocities in Telangana, but it is a timeless poem.

TvamEvaaham is a rather difficult kaavyam to read casually. When it was first published purists were offended by the free use of English words and even the obscure 'reach for the dictionary' Telugu words irritated many. The host of images that flash by too fast, figures of speech, allusions and associations bewildered lazy readers who confuse the unfamiliar with the incomprehensible. They ask how can

బ్రెయిన్‌లో బ్రెన్‌గన్
రెయిన్‌లా ఆలోచనల ట్రెయిన్
స్పయినల్ కార్డులో స్పెయిన్
గ్లూమీ తిమిరాలు చెరిషించి
సైతాన్ మనల్ని పరిషించునపుడు
నిర్వేదనా పవనాలు వర్షించు
సింతటిక్ చింతను ధరించు కవి
అంతట ఖెయాసు పెరిషించు

ఖెయాసు ఎడారి లోపల
ఒయాసిస్సు పొయిట్రీ
కవిత్వపు ఖెయాసులో
ఖెయాసుకి ఉరికొయ్య…

బ్రెయిన్‌లో పెయిన్
ప్రతీ వెయిన్‌లో మెషిన్‌గన్ రెయిన్

be considered serious poetry? But it is.

The above loses potency in translation, and needs copious footnotes, but here is a transliterated version. This is from the first section of the work. After a prologue that ponders upon the nature of time, this section treats time as a river that rises in the mountains and makes its way down to the plains. Thus it's clear why those English words are perfect there-- for the cadences, for sheer rightness; and how well the excerpt reflects the turbulent out-flowing of a river from the glacial beginning. You can sense the cataracts and rapids of the river in the section.

breyin lO bren gan
reyin laa aalochanala treyin
spayinal kaarDu lO speyin
gloomee timiraalu cherish-inchi
Saitaan manalni parishinchunapuDu
nirvEdanaa pavanaalu varshinchu
sintatik chintanu dharinchu kavi
antaTa kheyaasu perish-inchu

kheyaasu eDaari lOpala
oyaasissu poyitree
kavitvapu keyaasulO
kheyaasuki urikoyya
…
breyin lO peyin
pratee veyin lO meshin gan reyin

Later come the clocks and their hands to symbolise societies down the ages, the big small and seconds hands of a clock, and the pendulum to signify social classes. But first comes the warning of the alarum:

Lo ! Hallo!
Oh! Hallo!
Hallo! Hallo!
pramaadam!
pramaadam!

And so on. The tyranny of the poem is that you have to read it at the poet's pace as he sets it. The structure is such; this is not just wordplay but tyranny of rhythm in seemingly free verse and mastery of sound. What images and events it invokes are timeless, you can make your connections, for all that the poem TvamEvaaham is about the Razakar atrocities during the Telangana movement a year after Independence. But the reading is entirely as the poet intends it to go.

idi naagali
idi daagali
idE punaadi
saitaanuku
idE samaadhi

It is impossible to read these lines fast.

When Time is the theme and a river the metaphor, there is symbolism of the mountain stage, to placid flowing, acquiring tributaries. We measure time because we need to make sense of things. Sundials, hourglasses or water clocks, we have measured time always, with ever-growing sophistication.

The clock in TvamEvaaham stands for social classes and divisions. The stopwatch counts down to the events unfolding. The hours, minutes and seconds themselves are commentary on contemporary events. Thus the poet focuses our attention on a single event in the river of time.

My favourite part of the kaavyam is the section nimishaalu - Minutes. Written as a monologue, with acid unpunctuated prose commentary alternating with supposed free but tightly written verse, this section mirrors middle class mentality, the woes, aspirations and traps thereof. There is a rhythm to the monologue and the mutters of commentary that is achieved partly by eschewing punctuation and partly by the rhythm of spoken language itself. The leitmotif of 'mamu brOchuvaaru' and how it evolves, using images evoked by Carnatic kritis is masterly.

The Water Clock is one of the few segments that can be translated at all and that famous line is from here:

నువ్వు ఎక్కదలచుకొన్న రైలు
ఎప్పుడూ ఒక జీవితకాలం లేటు
ఏళ్ళూ పూళ్ళూ నిరీక్షించలేక
ఎక్కేస్తావేదో ఒక బండీ
నీ ఆదర్శాల లగేజీ
ఎక్సెసంటాడు టి. ఐ. సీ.
నీ ఈప్సితాల ట్రంకు పెట్లు
కలల బ్రేకులో పారెయ్యాలి
నువ్వు తెచ్చుకొన్నవన్నీ
ఎక్కించీ లోపున
కదిలిపోతుంది బండీ
అందుకే అందులో కొన్ని
నీ అభిమాన హీరోల దగ్గిరే
ఒదిలెయ్యి
నువ్వు వెళ్ళదలచుకొన్న ఊరు
నువ్వు బతికుండగా చేరదా రైలు
దేవుడా! ఇంత చేశావా అని
ఉన్న ఊళ్ళోనే ఉండు!

the train you intended to board
is always a lifetime late
unwilling to wait for ages
you board any that comes along
your luggage of ideals
is excess, will say the T.I.C.
trunk-loads of your hopes and desires
consigned to the brake van of dreams
the train will set off before
you can load all your baggage
so, leave some behind
with the heroes that you idolise
that train won't reach your destination
during your lifetime
bemoan in god's name
and stay put where you are.

Maybe one day I will have a go at translating the other sections, but TvamEvaaham should be read in Telugu and aloud, to experience it best.

Cheers!

The Little Flowers of Perpetual Annoyance

2007-10-05T18:43:00.000+05:30

"Why, that was almost vicious, Lali." She said with some surprise. I was surprised that she was, she knew how I functioned, after all.

Well, I am a mild person, but that doesn't mean I don't have pet peeves and things that irk me. Dozens of things irritate me, but I generally don't vent about them, not until I started blogging anyway. In this case, it was about language. A perfectly well educated young lady who ought to have known better, and her speech went somewhat like this: well, I was like… and he went… so I was like, dude, but he was like…

People use profanities as punctuation. I am used to it and have learned, if not to grin and bear it, at least to wince inwardly and ignore it. Swearing is a personal choice, and if people can't offend, make their point or insult creatively using words instead of swearwords, it only reflects on their linguistic capacity, after all. Being reluctant or unable to say 'I said' maybe fashionable, but it smacks of poor education or some speech impediment to me.

People carrying umbrellas irritate me. No, I don't object to their trying to protect themselves from the elements, but I do object to people being mostly shorter than me, and toting their brollies at the precise height that will threaten a poke in my eye. I wish I was taller or they were, or I was shorter, whichever, so I could be out of range. The ducking and weaving I have to do to avoid potential jabs from these umbrella wielders annoys me.

Women with flowing tresses annoy me. It is not envy, okay? I wear my hair short for my reasons and if they have the time and inclination to look after long hair, they are welcome to their manes, and it is their prerogative. What I object to is having their hair fly into my face as I stand in a queue behind them, or on the streets. I am not their boyfriend to swoon as the strands brush against me. I don't want sahara of their mehki hui zulfein and it usually smells of sweat anyhow. Why can't they keep their hair drawn into a neat ponytail?

I get annoyed when thoughtless youngsters walk three or four abreast ahead of me. They are having marvellous conversations, they are trading jokes and punch lines, hooting, giggling and having the time of their lives going to college. They are also holding me up as I try to do my shopping and walk down the same road to my Madrasi shop and such. Trying to pass them muttering "excuse me" gets me variously, responses that range from "oh, you are excused," "ooh, soooo sorry " and this in the vernacular, so I only get the gist of it, "did your grandfather buy this road, then?" I can retort "did yours?" but it is pointless.

I can't decide what irritates me more, their ambling when I am in a hurry, or how badly taught they are in minimal courtesies of the road.

Girls teetering on ill-fitting high heels, toes or heels sticking out make me gnash my teeth. They don't come up to my eye-level even with in that insanely high footwear. Why can't they buy properly sized shoes? Who are they trying to convince they are tall? They walk with mincing steps, with toes clenching to stay aloft, balancing precariously. And when you add painted-on jeans that make free striding impossible it just gets worse.

Toes sticking out of trendy footwear and having trouble coping with the insane high heels that may be perfect for the catwalk but totally unsuited to negotiate Calcutta streets-- it is so ugly it is pathetic. Who wants to have a permanent backache induced by being thrown out of balance by those heels and hitching one's pelvis forwards? Don't they look at themselves in a mirror before they leave home? Haven't they ever seen themselves walking, say in a mall mirror? Why don't they curl up in embarrassment? Oh, it is because I do, on their behalf.

And I don't know which irritates me more, chipped nail polish or toenails grown to talon lengths. It is silly to grow one's toenails to long lengths and shape them to tapering points, you'd only jab yourself sooner or later, and meanwhile you are an eyesore to every aesthete out there. If you want to sport painted toenails the least you can do is to make sure it doesn't grow out with the nails and get chipped along the way. Don't get me started on cracked heels and dirty feet in trendy footwear sported by well-dressed pretty young things. How long does it take to use a pumice stone in your bath, for pity's sake?

Mangling of verbs while chatting irritates me: sented, lefted, and worse. It is only cute if you are a baby learning to talk. Shortening words to component consonants irritates me. There might be shortage of resources in the world, but surely typing the vowels doesn't take long, and doesn't speed up the global warming all that much, does it? It is worse when the reverse happens, too. You have time to type 'I heart something' but you don't have the sense to type love in place of heart? Why stint on vowels and act twee, primitive-and-outmoded-concept-on-a-crutch?

When I write a perfectly courteous mail and get a supercilious or a condescending reply, it rankles. When I make a nutritious meal and my men choose to order delivery, it rankles, too. But that's a post for another day. Let's stick to the linguistic stupidities educated young people who really ought to know better prefer to embrace. I was like. Indeed. He went. Really, where did he go? So me said. Hm, didn't they teach grammar in your school, ducky?

So, as I was talking to the young lady, what I longed to say was different from what I said. Which rock did you bury your grammar skills under, and can you retrieve them before your brain atrophies and you forget, was what I wanted to say. What I said was mild, that it was good to see her coping so well with ataxic aphasia, which can really play havoc with some people.

Luckily, she had a sense of humour too. So after she got it, and got over the surprise of my being nasty, she laughed and stopped saying 'I was like' when she meant 'I said.' For my part, I refrained from pointing out that it should have been 'I had said.'

Cheers!

Naughty but nice

2007-10-03T20:05:00.000+05:30

If it is Tuesday it is going to be Paul, I always think, like that film. He usually features on Tuesdays. I love Paul's puzzles. He has a disconcerting sense of humour and he always makes me laugh. I've mulled over the title of this post longer than I've spent solving Tuesday's Guardian puzzle (Missus Em's biology lessons, was one title I considered and rejected). It was a treat.

When 1 Down, the first clue in the grid makes you giggle, you are prepared for the rest of it. And the rest of clues are a treat too. Before I get into biology and bawdiness, let me give a few innocent clues he set.

Land on one's head? (6)
Cannon for Englishmen abroad? (3-3)
Where bird found fish (5)

These are simple enough to solve, and a good way to get into the puzzle. Land on one's head is Panama, and Englishmen abroad are Poms. While I am a vegetarian, I have learnt a lot about cuts of beef, kinds of meat and names of fish during my cryptic crossword solving career, so it was a no-brainer to ask me where bird found fish, it's perch, simple.

And then there were the other clues, the funny very Paul kind of clues. There was the first across clue, which was a laugh:

I appreciate that, darling, nothing turns one on- it happens once a month! (9)

This is a brilliant clue and typical Paul. You need to think slang here. Ta, luv, O all written backward and then i and on. Biology lessons, anyone? Ovulation happens once a month.

There was 1 Down too. Couple under a hundred above sum total (10)

This is a splendid clue. C for hundred, okay? C, on for above and then sum and then mate for couple. The definition is total, and solution consummate.

Just in case we were thinking of holy matrimony, Paul sets us right with this: Good representative, a solicitor (4) While I was still giggling about that, there was the next gem: Coarse quality needs attention (she isn't refined) (10)

Pi for being goody goody, and MP for representative. Heh. And ear for attention and an anagram of 'she isn't' and there you are- earthiness.

When I finished solving other clues there came a humdinger, and I saw it late because I was on my 'by numbers' stint. There is this urge to try and solve clues by numbers, I confessed to being prey to it.

Release of man reflected one's fate (7)*

This is so brilliant, I tell you. I am tempted to let you figure it out yourself and giggle all the while. These compilers are a wonderful lot, I tell you. Paul had some simpler ones too, like

Good to get together again with fruity thing (9)
Old writer about to end tale at first profitable (9)

Here is advice gratis. The thing with cryptic crosswords is to ignore punctuation if any; it is only there to misdirect. Instead if you deal with the words as precise instructions, it gets easier, as these clues are fair.

G+ re engage or ex pe(die)n+t are clues old hands can solve in their sleep. But release of man reflected is special. Paul must have been smiling as he compiled these irreverent clues. I certainly was smiling as I solved them. Naughty but nice, right?

Cheers!
*Nemesis

C'est la vie

2007-10-01T22:45:00.000+05:30

Mess she makes with buttery chocolate, as luck would have it (5,3,3,3,6,8)*

Life, 'tis said, goes on- my friend pontificated, adding that it is a bad habit life has, to go on. Wait, I must write this down- I said snidely, it's such a remarkable observation.

Things happen. Things have a way of shaking you up, yes, but they don't stop while you are being all shook up and considering how to deal with it. Things keep happening.

My son once generously took me to see a film; it was a famous film, he saw it before it was released and all that. It was on a second run because it was nominated for some award. A week after his treat that film was broadcast on the cable. He grumbled a lot about the money he could have saved. I pointed out that I'd paid for the popcorn, but that cut no ice.

Pasta, yeah. Spinach cheese and garlic sauce, with sautéed vegetables and maybe roast potatoes. That is what I want to make, and my soul yearns for. Except, the rains have made it impossible, as vendors don't carry spinach during or just after such downpours as we have had, not when entire market garden businesses have got submerged. They don't buy greens that might get sodden and rot, and they don't sell either. Greens spoil easily, cost the earth and nobody in their right senses will buy spinach during a rainy spell. So it is dal and two veg as usual. Bottle gourd anyone, and okra and spuds?

I dither and dither and finally go shopping for myself; and I find I have become the Discontinued Woman. To the perpetual insult which for the moment is merely injury of not having bras in odd numbered sizes, they have added the slight of discontinuing my preferred cut and style. Madam can try these, says the salesgirl, waving a hand at the display of sequined, rainbow coloured and padded monstrosities. No thank you, I suppress a shudder. My idea of a daily wear bra doesn't come in candy stripes or with cute ribbons, lace and embroidery. Ordinary plain and simple bras are next to nonexistent nowadays, and I have to settle for even numbers there too. I was too young when bra burning was a statement, but I'd definitely have torched the dainty matched with a g-string stuff that was on offer, I tell you. Which woman in her right mind would …oh, um… okay…I suppose. But still, ordinary days count too, is all I am saying.

I write a loving tribute to a song and a singer and the post sinks like a stone with concrete boots attached. They arrive at my blog searching for massage parlours in Kolkata/ Calcutta, meaning of Lalitha, Neha, Niharika, khoya hua rangeen nazara, sexy bedroom stories in Telugu and the Zarapkar System of Cutting, but visitors to my blog spend 0:00 seconds on any given page Google has directed them to, and they don't bother to comment either. Oh, they come looking for Valmiki and Gilgamesh and feijoa too, but what is the point?

We have an unexpected but welcome visitor on Wednesday. Much fun had, but there is shortage of spirits on Thursday and it cannot be remedied. Thursdays are dry days, you see. Actually, so are Independence Day and Republic Day; let's not talk about why Second October must be a dry day. Why should sale of liquor on any given day be curtailed in a democratic country? Whose sentiments are being appeased? Why aren't my sentiments that I'd like a tipple in the evening being appeased?

I finally figure out a fiendish anagram, but broadband is dead, so I can't submit my solution for the prize crossword. It is not a big deal, I know, just irksome not being able to do a thing one wants to. Calling BSNL will only mean the aggravation of interactive voice services and keying in my zillion-numbers long contact number for them which is an exercise in pointlessness as they never get back in touch with me anyhow.

There are many ways to express sympathy and commiseration: hard luck, tough cheese, too bad, better luck next time. There is no next time, really. First impressions don't have a second chance and time only moves forward. But thank goodness we learn to live with events; songs heard, jokes repeated, loves lost and grief overcome.

Ahead maybe shoals of angst, storms of rage and reefs of misery. But we keep steering, not in hope of landfall as sailing is all, but because to stop steering is admitting to the doldrums. Being becalmed won't get us anywhere. So let's not avast, but avaunt.

Another day, another post, as my friend said. C'est la vie.

Cheers!

* That's the way the cookie crumbles

Lost vivid vistas

2007-09-27T15:43:00.000+05:30

I don't believe in love at first sight. What happens is mutual attraction and interest, a sizing up of the person. It is a reflexive assessment of a person of opposite gender as a potential mate. As we judge superficial qualities we also weigh attractiveness against how useful a mate that person might make, since plain people do find partners, after all. This judging is built into us by evolution.

Love is accretion of fondness, affection, dependence, trust and more over initial attraction and lust and urgency to learn all about a person; it develops out of propinquity but hey, it is just my opinion, it is not set in stone. You are free to define love any way you want to.

Even if I don't believe in the 'eyes meeting across a crowded room' variety of love at first sight, I like the idea of it. And in Indian films they make a song and dance about it. Some of these songs of love and longing become classics. For the defining song about love at first sight, there is nothing better than Rafi's 'mere mehboob tujhe meri mohabbat ki kasam' and it is a song that crept into my heart like the Arab's camel.

What can you say about a song that you learned to love almost without noticing? Whenever All India Radio aired it, I'd pause and listen. The song had a strangely beguiling and compelling power. The perfect tune, the longing tone of the singer, that very voice, the minimal and elegant instrumental interludes all lodged the song in my mind.

No matter I didn't know what Rafi was bemoaning. I didn't even know it was Rafi who rained beauty via our radio; it was Hindi, so it didn't count. I was totally ignorant about Hindi those days. Even so, those meditative and measured lines, interspersed with the passionate refrain that I instinctively knew was a plea, were haunting. I had no idea what 'khoya hua rangeen nazara' meant, but I could feel the yearning the phrase conveyed.

Then our mother decided we needed to learn Hindi because it was the national language. We should know it before we choose to sneer at it, was her stance. So we had tuition at home and made it up to the third level of tests at Hindi Prachar Sabha. But the lessons didn't make any Hindi film song any clearer to me; they confused me further. The Hindi in the textbooks bore no resemblance to the songs on AIR.

In college years, my buddy who was a fan of old Hindi film songs, introduced many songs to me playing them on his record player, and 'mere mehboob' was a favourite of his. Those were still days of turntables and for such a lengthy song, the plate (yes, they used to be called that, those vinyl records of 78 rpms) had to be reversed in the middle of the song, and that made the listening dissatisfying.

And the meaning still remained elusive. The song was chockfull of lovely sounding but utterly incomprehensible Urdu words that my limited Hindi had no reference to grasp. As my horizons broadened and Hindi films came to Madras in a big way with Aradhana, I slowly began to follow dialogues, and understand the songs. Slowly, I began to appreciate the poetry of these songs.

Later, with the widespread availability of cassette players, I was able to hear the song in its entirety for the first time. And what a marvellous experience that was, too. (Don't ask, since I won't tell) Though I still didn't know what many words meant, the plea was clearer.

Earlier, a brush with Hindustani music, thanks to my husband, informed me that the song was in Jhinjhoti. I used to think the tune was sort of like Yadukula Kambhoji. That 'sort of' came from it being Pahadi Jhinjhoti, my husband said.

A brilliant composer, an accomplished poet, and a wonderful singer combined to create this beautiful song, and I never tire of listening to it.

Each time I listen, I find another nuance; I understand another hitherto incomprehensible Urdu word and my appreciation of the song, and Rafi, keeps growing. The tune is deceptively simple. Lines of musing in the lower half of the octave alternate with the fervent plea climbing to the upper reaches. The flourishes are elegant in their economy, the instrumental interludes pleasingly wistful. But the beauty of the song lies in the poetry and Rafi's voice- pure, passionate and perfect.

'Mere mehboob' is a song that can't happen these days. The tempo, sentiment and tune are too old fashioned. There is a touching innocence in the song, a sense of worship and idolisation rather than desire and passion. I don't think such innocence is possible these days. Besides, who can imagine a song over eight minutes long being picturised on a singer in an auditorium? Two flashbacks of the meeting he is remembering, some shots of the girl he is addressing the song to, some of the audience- the rest of the time the camera stays fixed on the singer. It is unthinkable in these days of Item numbers and raunchy songs.

After decades of listening to and loving the song, I tried to render the lyric into English. My Hindi is poor and Urdu non-existent, so I really had to work at this. But this is what the song says to me:

Beloved, in the name of my love
Grant me succour of those lovely eyes again
Return those lost vivid vistas of mine

O definition of my dreams, soul of my poesy
My life is spent remembering you
Night and day I am beset by your image
My heartbeats call out to you all the while

Give me solace of your voice responding
Return those lost vivid vistas of mine
Beloved, in the name of my love

My eyes cannot forget that pleasant tableau
When your beauty collided with my adoration
And strewn on the path were many thousand melodies
I had bestowed those melodies to your voice

Give my heartstrings aid of those very songs
Return those lost vivid vistas of mine
Beloved, in the name of my love

I remember well that first instant my life began
When I drank some potion gazing into your eyes
Some lightning coursed through every pore of my being
When I touched your marble-fair hands

Grant me comfort of those hands again
Return those lost vivid vistas of mine
Beloved, in the name of my love

I saw you but for a brief moment
I yearn only to behold you once again
Deeming your shadow the beauteous Taj Mahal
On moonlit nights I will adore you with my eyes

Grant me solace of your fragrant tresses
Return those lost vivid vistas of mine
Beloved, in the name of my love

I seek you on every path, at each gathering
My helpless yearning treads weary now
This day is for my hope the final day
Morrow knows not where I will be or you, Beloved

Give me for a while the haven of your gaze
Return those lost vivid vistas of mine
Beloved, in the name of my love

Stand before me and lift your veil in mercy
'Tis the sole remedy for the grief of my solitude
Being apart from you has tormented me
Come and meet me now or surely I die

Succour my heart with forgotten memories
Return those lost vivid vistas of mine
Beloved, in the name of my love

Sigh!

On first encountering my beloved

2007-09-25T17:40:00.000+05:30

A guest post by the Resident Musician

It was a bitterly cold December evening in Delhi in 1978. A Guru and his Chela sat huddled over a Bajaj convector heater warming their fingers and slowly sipping the single malt Scotch whisky the Chela had bought in the duty-free shop in Bangkok.

“So you just want to do a bit of reconnoitering preparing for the year’s field work for your thesis on Thumri?” asked the Guru.

“Yeah, that year hopefully will begin in September ’80 but I’ll need that much time to work on my Urdu so that I don’t have to use interpreters for interviewing tawaiifs”.

“Of course” said the Guru, “interpreters are a drag when you want to have a tete-a-tete with a tawaiif. When and where do you plan to reconnoitre?”

“I’ll start with Old Delhi from tomorrow and maybe in January go to Calcutta and look up the area where Wajed Ali Shah lived his last years. I believe Thumri started there and maybe there are a few old fossils who can tell me interesting stories. Then there is Bombay which I don’t know much about and you don’t either.”

Next evening the two were again huddling over the heater but in a far darker mood. The Chela’s forays in Old Delhi during the day had not yielded a single address where he could possibly find a tawaiif. And the Guru had just come back after a seminar with his mathematician colleagues who had scheduled the departmental New Years’ Eve party at his flat because there would not be a Missus around to take the punchbowl away just as the party started to get interesting.

The Chela was quizzical. “What is wrong with these chaps coming over with booze for a few hours just before midnight,” he asked.

“Look, I listen to mathematical jokes to make a living, but listening to such banter is not my idea of ringing in the New Year,” replied the Guru glumly.

“Oh, I will come over with some dancing houris to enliven things,” assured the Chela. The Guru gave a start and said, “Why don’t you just go and scoot off to Calcutta first thing tomorrow instead of trying to be helpful? These guys are Tamil Brahmins, vegetarians and would have apoplectic fits if they encountered a sarangi or tabla player in my flat whether or not the female was present.”

"That does it," said the Chela, "let me go and have a serious look around and if I find a suitable troupe I’ll book them. Today is the 29th, so we can’t waste much time." Reluctantly the Guru decided to accompany the younger man, knowing full well how dubious the tastes of his sitar student were. At least by accompanying him a veto on the final choice could be exercised.

Having coaxed his Padmini engine to start the Guru and his Chela rode off into the deserted streets. After a meal at one of the Pandara Road eateries, the quest began in earnest.

“Where do we go now?” asked the Guru. “Go past the New Delhi station and then we will turn left and I will guide you after that” said the Chela. Twenty minutes after leaving the New Delhi station behind and many twists and turns, the Chela said, “you may as well stop here. The place I once saw dancing girls five years ago must be somewhere around, we’ll look out for it as we walk around”.

“G. B. Road,” said the Chela in response to the Guru’s query, “what is this place?” They walked along a narrow pavement littered with an assortment of garbage and beggars’ bowls. The Chela stopped at a paan shop and asked where he could find ‘naatchne walee larkiyan’ and the paan shopwallah replied in an exasperated tone that around here there are only ‘pesha karney walee larkiyan.’

This kind of Hindi was Greek to the Chela who could recite a substantial amount of Ghalib and Momin but was wont to respond to a simple query like “Kya haal” with “tasallee baksh!” So the Guru translated, “There are no dancers here, only whores.”

Nothing deterred, the Chela dove into a narrow side street and almost at once the two could hear the sound of ‘ghunghroos’ and tablas. They followed the sound and came to a dark and dank doorway.

Stepping inside they were buffeted by a wall of stench of ammonia which can only be described by the Sanskrit ‘soochee bhedya’ (not pierceable by a needle.) As they climbed a rickety set of stairs, the ‘ghungroos’ got louder and finally on the third floor they came to a well-lit room where a thin fortyish man was pumping away at a beat-up harmonium. A tabla player fondling a duggi and a slightly built woman engaged in bargaining the price of the next number with a couple of dissolute customers.

Upon seeing the Chela’s Anglo-Saxon visage, all conversation ceased. The matron of the place came rushing over driving away the train of beggars who had followed the Guru-Chela duo up the staircase and asked the new visitors to sit on the not so immaculately white sheet, which covered the floor. As soon as they sat down, a young woman came in with two garlands of flowers one of which she put around a beaming Chela’s neck. She tried to do the same with the Guru, but he put up a deprecating hand and muttered “Mein driver hoon.”

The guru whispered to the Chela “Let's get the hell out of this place. I am not having this lot enter my flat!” The Chela addressed the matron "Mein ghazal sun naa chaahtaa hoon.” This request caused consternation, the dancing girl and the tabla player went away and a new girl came in with a new harmonium player.

She knelt in front of the exotic duo who had invaded the seedy brothel. She hummed gently and as the harmonium player trilled off a phrase or two of Jhinjhoti she put one hand over her head in a vaguely danseuse like posture and opened her mouth. And an ear-shattering screechy falsetto voice screamed into the night…

“Mere mehboob tujhe meri mohabbat ki kasam…"

When the song ended the Chela wanted to know about the author of the ghazal. “Qalaam kaun?” The Guru translated “Yeh kiska ghazal?” The answer came with a flashing smile: “Mohammed Rafi!” Satisfied, the Chela stuffed a fifty-rupee note into the singer’s décolletage and the duo left.

The Chela remarked as they got into the car, “I must find out who the poet was. The lyrics were pretty decent but I don’t think there is a poet, past or present, called Mohammed Rafi”.

Cheers!

Ape-men do variously

2007-09-22T22:21:00.000+05:30

An idle mind might be the devil's workshop, but a mind in giddy relief is a veritable Aladdin's Cave of anagrams.

It was a 'prime notion' but I should have known when I discovered that 'premonition' is an anagram of 'I'm no pointer' too. I thought I could take his mind off discomfort by recounting all the great discoveries I made.

I was trying to be nice and wifely, you know. I married for better or worse, yes, but that doesn't mean one should stop trying to improve one's spouse's mind, or teaching him the arcanum of alphabet. If he wants me to stop counting on my fingers and taking help from my toes, he can learn to appreciate anagrams, is what I say.

"Aphrodite is atrophied," I told him. "I wonder why people grumble about Monday blues, when Monday is an anagram of dynamo. Was St. Michael alchemist, and does a cartoonist toot in cars," I asked.

Being 'medicated' 'decimated' his appreciation of these nuances. He just grunted. But I was determined to amuse him and engage his left brain. Anagrams exercise the brain, after all.

"Isn't it strange that deposit is an anagram of topside," I mused. "Did you know steamship room is an anagram of metamorphosis, and hey, it's 'a smooth simper' too," I said. He closed his eyes.

The 'sedative' he is on 'deviates' his mind from this lofty matter, I told myself. "Curiosity killed the cat turns out to be, I courted sick lethality," I informed him, sticking to the task of entertaining and educating him at the same time. "A capitalist pig is a papalistic git, did you know?"

He sighed. I ploughed on, because one doesn't quit in the face of indifference. "Indoor furniture may be at risk, but Great Danes are safe on garden seats," I confided. He was silent.

"I found why Othello acted as he did, it's because comparison panics Moor," I told him. He winced. "To the abortionist, to the obsequent, is an anagram of- to be or not to be, that is the question," I said.

He stirred and opened an eye. "Can you think of an anagram for strangulate?" he asked. "Sure, neutral gales," I said, delighted he was beginning to take an interest. "Murder most foul?" "Hey, that's simple, fouler mud storm," I said; "model rust forum, too."

"Are there more of these gems," he asked, rolling to face the other side. I discerned boredom in the tone, but one makes allowances for invalids. Education is an uphill task.

"Um, urticaria by Pooh-Bah is an anagram of arachibutyrophobia," I said. "Really, how nice." "Yes and Whistler's Mother is worthless hermit."

"I think I will have a nap now," he said, and closed his eyes in a definite snub.

"Ape-men do variously is an anagram of ampersand I love you," I said in tart tones. He started snoring, the ingrate.

Cheers!

Getting cut up

2007-09-21T17:49:00.000+05:30

*Long post warning*

Does anyone have a family physician anymore, I wonder? All doctors seem to be specialists now, and it is hard to find a doctor who practices general medicine and routine care of patients. Forget about house calls, they just don't do them anymore.

But we had a family doctor when I was growing up and a very nice doctor he was, too. He made house calls, but he had a clinic and dispensary too. His nurse Annie used to mix stuff, powder codopyrine tablets for us to take mixed with honey. There'd be glass bottles of interesting colours with a strip of paper stuck along the height with dosage levels marked. She'd give us the odd injections too. Dr. Varma even performed minor procedures like lancing boils and dressing wounds in his clinic. I loved the smell and feel of his clinic; and looking back I can only admire the quiet efficiency with which Dr. Varma and Annie went about making people better.

He lanced a boil on my arm when I was a teenager, and disdained to suture it. His son, a foreign-returned next generation doctor who assisted by holding the kidney-shaped tray as Dr. Varma squeezed and swabbed (and thereby kept me being brave, as I had a crush on him), was aghast. She will have a bad scar, he objected. She will have a healthy arm, his father retorted.

As it happened, the bad scar grew to be a keloid. By this time, Dr. Varma had retired and moved to Kerala, and we trusted other doctors to know family medical history in detail, traits of individuals and their proneness to ailments. My mother decided the keloid lowered my value in the marriage stakes, so it was removed surgically, in an operating theatre, unlike the informal surgery practiced by Dr. Varma. I went through sessions of radiation therapy on that arm that made me look like I had a bad case of sunburn for weeks.

After those two bouts with surgery of the basic of the kind, you'd think I'd grow up and quit getting cut up. No, I once tried to lance a whitlow myself with a sterlised needle and fainted. I must say, I don't faint gracefully. I toppled down and split my chin like a ripe guava and cut my lip as my teeth bit down in reflex. More stitches and let's pass over my family's remarks; it is kinder to me.

Then there came my son. Too lazy to make his way out of the womb, he had to be delivered by C-section before what remained of amniotic fluid drained away. As it was, he was underweight, having lost grams and grams in being slothful. My obstetrician consulted calendars and avoided rahukalam and fixed a muhurtam. Though I pleaded for a bikini incision, she did a vertical incision. You should worry about your baby's safety than about wearing a sari below the navel, child, she'd said.

Stitches galore and counting. Following folk wisdom that a tooth for every childbirth, I had to have a wisdom tooth extracted. I won't rant about our old dentist who gave us our braces here, okay; he deserves a whole post. Nor will I dwell on the identical twins, both dentists. One took the said wisdom tooth out, the other asked me what seems to be the problem when I went for a review; I won't tell you about the volcano impersonation I did either.

More stitches followed more procedures. A para-nasal polyp removed, with two dogs invading the room seeking me. Go home, I said sternly through gauze stuffed into nose and mouth. The Princess went, she had humans to take care of at home. The other dog, a stray that adopted me, merely retreated to the garden of the clinic, and stayed there until he could escort me home.

There were other mere niggles, like the ganglion cyst. B2 said that his father would have done a rough and ready treatment of it by smashing a heavy book down on it, but I could ignore it since it will go away as my veena playing hours get shorter. It did.

In Calcutta we had a nice doctor, a perfect GP for all that he specialised in postoperative care for bypass patients. My first thought when I read his first prescription was that he was in cahoots with some lab or the other. One check-up to diagnose spondylitis and he wants me to get an endoscopy? It was laughable and I laughed, until the duodenal ulcer struck three months later. This doctor had wonderful instinct for potential trouble.

He also pointed out that people take more time and trouble over their vehicles than their bodies, but unlike vehicles, people don't come with spare parts. With such philosophy, I trusted his judgment and demanded he be present when I was being cut up. He did, and I ended in ICU the last time I had a major surgery, simply because he thought my blood pressure was unsatisfactory for what he knew of my medical history.

So you can say I have observed many doctors and their methods. Some, like our dentist friend and Calcutta's most famous ENT specialist, are flamboyant characters. Stories about their eccentricities abound. There are doctors who are quietly efficient, doctors who prescribe a zillion tests for an ingrown toenail, and those who prefer minimal intervention.

This is an immensely long prelude, I know, but I come to the point of the post now. (I did warn you this is a long post.)

There was a surgery in the offing. We were discussing dates. I mentioned my reasons for waiting until after a special day. The surgeon verified his calendar. Listen, he lectured at his junior: you never disregard the patient's or the family's sentiments, you never sneer at superstitions or fears or wanting to avoid some dates. There is no such thing as a routine surgery, all are fraught, and all are serious, so the patient's frame of mind is important.

I thought back to another day. There was a surgery in the offing. I objected to the date, it was too close to an anniversary. The surgeon blithely said, so celebrate the day in the nursing home, makes a change from the regular, doesn't it? We did, in spades. Ironically speaking, of course.

The surgeon continued his lecture: you build a team. My team I can trust absolutely. You build up a network with other surgeons. My friends will give me time, leave their theatres to assist me. Build up goodwill. It is important. If a brother surgeon is in trouble, you scrub and assist.

I suppressed a smile as I heard this. It reminded me of Nanny Ogg. "If you go to their funerals, as we say in Lancre, they'll come to yours."

But what the surgeon said made sense; I am a veteran of many surgical procedures, so I appreciated his philosophy. My husband is a veteran of some surgeries too, but he has had dreadful experiences. The blithe surgeon operated on him a dozen years ago. Yesterday, the surgeon with the philosophy that no surgery is minor operated on my husband.

I fainted both times as he was wheeled out. The last time was in horror, yesterday in relief. But seriously, which doctor would you prefer to cut you open?

Cheers!

Being fruitful

2007-09-17T18:17:00.000+05:30

A newcomer to station life in OZ, the girl needs a jumper (8)*

There is a silly ambition I hope to achieve someday. I'd like to start a crossword with 1 across, solve 1 down, and proceed to solve the rest of the clues in order. What happens is, some clues need thinking through, some need at least a letter or two from other clues in place before enlightenment strikes, some, alas, can't be solved at all.

I have said this many times before, that familiarity with the setter's style and way of thinking goes a long way into solving a cryptic crossword quickly. Araucaria and Paul, Rover and Rufus, even Gordius, I can solve in one sitting. They appear frequently on the Guardian pages, and so I am familiar with their quirks.

Auster is a rare setter. I don't know his style. So on Friday, when I saw his name against the crossword, I was sure it was going to be a struggle. And then there was the special instruction: Across clues are related and have no definition. Down clues are normal.

You'd think this made the task tougher. On the contrary. Not having a definition sometimes makes it easier to solve the clue. That all the across clues are related meant I had to solve just one for the theme to be revealed, and that is the definition for the rest of them. Simplicity itself.

But first I had a go at my ambition. 1 down was the clue I gave above. Research time, right away. I sighed and tackled the next clue. There were some lovely down clues, one of which was

Evening primrose once found on site of Taj Mahal (6)**

What a beautiful clue! I fell in love. Time to tackle the across clues. The first one I solved was

He's interfering, by the sound of it (6)

This is simple, and now I knew the theme. Fruits. An interfering sort is a busybody, buttinsky, nosy-parker, kibitzer and meddler. There we go. 'By the sound of it' indicates that the spelling will differ. Medlar, a crabapple like deciduous tree cultivated for its fruits, ditto a South African fruit with brown leathery skin and pithy flesh having a sweet-acid taste. So all the across clues will be fruit trees.

No scope (6)
A particular time (4)
Two of a kind, say (4)

These confirmed the theme. No scope is an old clue, and appears in various avatars regularly. Orange, date and pear, what a fruity crossword this was proving to be.

Include me in the game (6)

The fun part of this kind of theme is confirming the solutions. It leads to my learning things I'd not have come across otherwise. Why would I know that pomelo is a Southeast Asian tree with large grapefruit like fruits, and is also known as shaddock?

High spirits in the Oval (6)

See how educational crosswords are? I didn't even know that there was a fruit called melon pear, let alone that it was also known as pepino.

The fool has broken toe (6)

This is simple, and so let me educate you further. In Mexico and Central America grows a tree, called tzapotl. We also know it as zapota. Another avatar of this is sapote. The fool, sap with an anagram of toe. Wonderful word, that tzapotl. I can't wait to use it a Scrabble game.

Nevertheless, one is following Aries (8)

This crossword definitely took me all over the world, I tell you. This is a Malayan tree, with pleasantly acid bright red oval fruit covered in soft spines. Ram, for Aries, with but and an following.

Camus is sent out, then let back (8)

Camus makes a lot of appearances in crosswords. It is sumac spelt backwards, and anagram of campus less p. Here it is an anagram followed by let written backwards. Muscatel is a sweet and aromatic grape used for raisins and wine, if you didn't know.

Flaky IMF gets flakier (6,4)

I laughed as I solved this anagram. Makrut and magrood are other names of this citrus fruit, and it is South Asian native. Kaffir lime is another fruit I can boast I know now.

12 Chuck senior? (10)
13 Lad accompanying 12? (11)

These were connected, and made me smile. Thanks to crosswords, I have come across Chuck Berry before. The solutions are elderberry and boysenberry. But the clue I am really proud to have solved is the following.

That is shown back in FJ Holden's second article (6)

This I figured out by cruciverbal logic, and looked up. Back to South America this time. A shrub with greenish edible plumlike fruit with white flesh, used chiefly for jellies and preserves, Dear Reader, I give you feijoa.

Cheers!

* jillaroo ** onagra

Ritardando con sentimento

2007-09-11T14:04:00.000+05:30

Taking stock in the West (8)*

Happiness is something you used to have.
Lyon Mearson

Happiness is hindsight, really.

Look, I am in a reflective mood, okay? It is allowed when we approach milestones and age has its privilege. So as I approach my fiftieth birthday I ask myself what is happiness? It is always something you perceive as having happened. You are never happy in present tense, really.

In present tense you are bothered, irritated, annoyed or amused; you are vexed or drowning in details, you are devastated, shocked; you are fretting if the eats are enough, you are buying supplies to outlast a Bandh; in the present tense you are anything but actually happy. In present tense you are active, you see? It is only in retrospect you can think about happiness.

Reflecting on a life as it happened is rather instructive, I find. It is all about choices. We make our choices everyday, small and big. Then there are choices that change our lives. If we are strong we manage, cope and live with the consequences of those choices.

After all these years, I don't know what happiness means. There were moments aplenty of joy, laughter and elation; companionship always and an occasional sense of achievement and more. Is that happiness?

We'd hosed the terrace, dragged cane chairs and an occasional table to hold our glasses — toddler safely in bed, day's labours all done, it was as cool as it gets in Delhi summer; whiskey and soda on ice; a sip and I leant back and said, "Ah, this is life." That's a memory my husband cherishes. Is that happiness?

An old-fashioned four-poster bed with mosquito nets and under the bed a furious negotiation: our Pariah Princess glaring balefully at "Boom Royale" (don't ask) the stuffed dog my son wanted her to make friends with. Did it matter who he slept cuddled up with, as the stuffed toys and the real dog both used to crowd his bed? But the image of my son enticing our dog from under the bed endures. Is that happiness?

My son beaming an incredulous 'I am in heaven' grin behind the wheel of a Porsche as the anonymous but kind owner looked on in amused benevolence. He was four years old and mad about cars. That's a memory I treasure. Is that happiness?

Candle time in Calcutta, load-shedding and a Scrabble game in progress with no quarter given. "Make home, Lali, make home," piped my son. "Thanks," I said, in mock-bitterness since he revealed my tiles to my husband, but proud that he could rearrange tiles in his head and deal with anagrams at age four. Is that happiness?

Life goes on. Nice things happen and nasty, since life is never always roses. I cherish the roses though, and I am glad for the blessing. I remember a poem, I wish I could quote all of it, but the last lines caught my attention, and struck a chord with me.

So I'll love myself and if my garden grows
Some sweet spring morning I'll give myself a rose.

Chance throws spanners in the work of life, but you just pick up pieces, bolt things together, add solder where necessary and keep going on. Throughout the years, memory of happiness sustained me. We were broke, we were in trouble, we had tragedies and woes. We had good luck and bad, thorns and roses.

In hindsight, I suppose, we were happy. You have your moments of elation and laughter; you have your moments of grief, shared and thus reduced to manageability. You have heaven and you never know it is heaven, not until you look back and realise it was heaven.

Happiness is little pleasures, sudden gladness. Happiness is being able to face oneself without shame or chagrin. Happiness is a reader telling me that he consoles himself that Lalita must have solved it in a jiffy as he tries to solve the Guardian puzzles, and saying he enjoyed my discursive crossword posts better than the crisp explaining of the solutions at fifteensquared.

As the clock ticks and takes me closer to the milestone of turning fifty, I look back. Happiness is remembering, actually. You are never happy, you only recall later that you were.

Cheers!

*rustling

The Great Dictator

2007-09-05T19:52:00.000+05:30

"Lali, do you have your pad nearby?" I looked up from the excruciatingly bad book I was trying to read and said yes. "Just jot something down for me, will you? I don't want to go to my computer now." I was glad to put the book aside. I picked up my pad and pen.

"Aitch en ess en ampersand."
"Um. Honey, is it capitals or lower case?"
"It doesn't matter. Transliterate in Telugu if you want, just jot it down, okay?"

Jotting down gobbledygook isn't easy. It is always easier to take dictation when you can make sense of it. But Missus Em is intrepid, so I wrote it down.

"Larrow."
"What?"
"Larrow. It means left arrow. This is LaTeX, Lali"
"Oh. Okay, larrow."

You see? How can you write down stuff you don't understand?

"Larrow hyphen tee ampersand."
I dutifully jotted that down.

"Aitch en arpeeyen arrow dash dee ampersand."
"Ampersand, ampersand. You have ampersands on your brain, honey."
"Ampersands mark out columns, Lali."
"Reminds me of the Lulu song, " I said. "Ampersand ampersand when you are near, ampersand ampersand loud in my ear, pounding away pounding away won't you be mine, ampersand I love you." I sang.

"Stop that," he said sternly. "This is serious. Aitch en minus one arpeeyen ampersand," he went on. I sighed and wrote that down.

"Dots."
"Dots?"
"Yes, dots."
"You don't say ellipsis?"
"No. Dots."
"Okay, dots."

It is funny how those three dots, the ellipsis has changed. An ellipsis is omission of some kind, an auxiliary verb instead of the full form, or omitted text in a quote. But nowadays it is used to indicating trailing off and incomplete sentences.

"Arrow hyphen dee aitch zero arpeeyen ampersand."
"Ampersand again, here we go."
"Oh, maybe not ampersand. Just hold on."
"Make up your mind, honey."
"Yeah. Ampersand."
"Okay, ampersand."

"Make that aitch zero."
"That's what I wrote. Do you mean one?"
"Don't be funny. Aitch zero arpeeyen line break. Scratch that ampersand out."
"Why? I am rather enjoying writing ampersands. I never wrote this many before."
"It's not necessary, that's why."

"What was that about? What did we achieve?"
"We have achieved a diagram."
"Really? Ampersands galore in that, then?"
"Yeah. Paul Taylor wrote this diagrams dot style package for LaTeX, to produce commutative diagrams. A really useful thing."

"If you say so. I am going to blog about this, you know?"
"Bah. What will you call the post?" He scoffed.
"Ampersand I love you, of course!"

Cheers!

Parroting

2007-09-02T18:33:00.000+05:30

Sometimes, a picture is really worth a thousand words. Neha's parrot took me back to my childhood.

There used to be an unused chimney on the upper floor of our neighbour's house. When I was young it used to be a particular pleasure to observe the antics of a family of parrots that took up residence in the vents of that chimney, their comings and goings, the raucous screeches of alarm as our cats prowled around, the fledglings learning to fly…

As a child, I lived in a house with a large compound with greenery, and had the good fortune of observing a lot of birds. Apart from the ubiquitous crows and sparrows, parrots, sunbirds, weavers, coppersmiths, bulbuls and more abounded in the garden and the patch of wilderness in the empty lot next door. But pigeons I saw only around the Thousand Lights area.

In Delhi, I encountered pigeons more commonly. And peacocks. Walking to the K Block market in Hauz Khas, and coming face to face with a peacock strutting down the lane is not something one can forget, ever.

In Calcutta I notice that sparrows are rarer, crows and pigeons are the most common birds one sees, other than the kites that wheel about in the sky. There are bulbuls and mynahs; once in a while I spot the cuckoos in the trees that surround the Lake. But I haven't seen a tailorbird, or a coppersmith, though I do hear woodpeckers occasionally.

Some years ago, there was a huge project to improve the rainwater drainage facility in our area. This meant they dug up Southern Avenue to lay pipes. The noise and the pollution of machines belching smoke drove the parrots that used to nest on the trees along Southern Avenue to our area. It is only a short distance, but this made for noisy readjustment in the bird population of the area.

Parrots are gregarious, and noisy. The clamour they set up as they left nests at dawn and returned at dusk was something unheard in our area until then. Used as we were to the dawn chorus of a thousand birds, parrots still added an element of loud good cheer.

I don't know how disrupted the balance of various bird species was by the invasion of the parrots. The roadwork is done, in as much as any undertaking by KMC is ever completed, but the parrots haven't returned to Southern Avenue.

They live here now, and the flash of brilliant green as they swarm out in the mornings is a welcome brightness. Even the harsh cries cheer. Is it just me, or are there fewer birds around in cities these days?

Cheers!

Touch wood!

2007-08-30T16:40:00.000+05:30

There is something I noticed about people in Calcutta that used to puzzle me a lot. They wear a lot of rings. Huge and iffy looking stones of many colours set not in gold but some white metal seem to adorn not just the ring finger but any at all. Why are they so fond of rings, I used to wonder, until I was told that these were probably prescribed as protection from planetary bad vibes.

Really? It is amazing how otherwise sane and sensible people can believe that a gem can ward off trouble, mitigate supposed baleful planetary influences and enhance the benevolent, ameliorate bad health, change one's luck and more. Good fortune, health, wealth, wisdom and more- all acquired by simply wearing a ring! The mind boggles.

Astrology, gemology and astrologically prescribed jewelry to get rich become successful and more is a flourishing sideline in jewelry shops. Most shops have a resident astrologer who suggests these for customers. I suppose there is a placebo effect in wearing these rings. If they set the minds at rest and offer comfort in a time of distress, it might seem like they do work miracles.

I am not interested in jewelry. I wear the girl's best friends, of course, but that is just portable wealth and carrying insurance. I wear three diamond studs on each ear lobe, not to mention the diamond that sits on my right nostril (there is a story behind that nose ring, but that is for another day).

I used to wear a navaratna ring, and it was the only jewelry I wore other than my diamonds. These rings are supposed to propitiate all the planets equally, but I only wore mine because my mother had it made for me. I wore it for some three decades. The ring slowly lost perfect circularity, the inner band wearing thin over the years. I had to remove it after arthritis struck and that took cold cream and unladylike mutterings, because my joints had thickened.

I am not superstitious. I don't believe in good luck charms or that rings can ward off malefic planetary influences, so removing that ring didn't make me feel uneasy. But folk remedies are something I will check, as they must work or else why would they linger as lore?

Some eight years ago, I developed a backache. It hurt so much that I had to wear a brace. I would hobble around groaning at each step. A cousin suggested a folk charm. He actually went to the trouble of acquiring it and brought it over.

This was a couple of strange desiccated looking pods, no larger than a finger joint, strung on red amulet string. I learnt later that they were modified flowers of some tree. Baghnakh, the cousin called them. They did look like a big cat's claws, with two curved thorn-like edges. Wear them tied round your waist, he said.

I thanked him, and tucked away those pods on a string in a corner of my dressing table and went on being miserable, in pain. I don't believe in miracle cures, after all.

But I was troubled when he called to say he would be visiting again, as I am basically honest. So I took the charm out. I could wear it for a day, and then I'd be able to tell him that I had tried it, but it had no effect. Wearing a string round my waist seemed ridiculous, so I wore it round my neck, feeling a little silly as I fastened the string.

The next day I awoke feeling odd. I felt odd setting up the kettle for my tea. It wasn't until I was brushing my teeth that it struck me. My backache was gone. I could bend without groaning. Being sceptical, I checked this out by bending further. I could touch my toes with no trouble. Since I had been living with pain for so long, no wonder absence of it felt odd.

I wore those pods or dried flowers, those baghnakh, for a long while. When the string frayed and gave way, I didn't bother to get a new string, though. The blessing about pain is that it fades, and you tend to forget it as soon as it stops. There would be no siblings in the world otherwise.

I'd given baghnakh to a cousin who had spondylitis. She said it improved her condition. I gave them to a friend, and she too said that it seemed to help. They didn't have quite the dramatic relief I did, but they wear baghnakh still.

I wore baghnakh without expecting any results, and was surprised to find it effective. But still, this makes sneering at astrologically gullible people rather difficult. Who am I to scoff?

There is a reason why I am talking about this. I'd hurt my back again, and I was in agony. Painkillers didn't work, hot compresses did nothing, and physiotherapy didn't help. So I dug out those strange pods. Perhaps they would do the trick again.

When the cousin gave them to me, they were already strung. I had to do it myself this time. Ingredients needed for Operation Baghnakh are: two baghnakh, a longish length of tohn shuto or thick yarn, a bodkin or a tapestry needle, a pair of scissors, a bottle of nail polish and pliers.

Baghnakh you can get in any shop that sells material for religious rites. It would be a good idea to get at least four times the length of string you think you will need. There will be botched attempts and unsatisfactory lengths, so you will be doing the stringing two or three times. The bodkin (I have such an appliance) or tapestry needle is for threading the string, and to push it through the baghnakh.

The nail polish is for stiffening the end of the string so you can thread it at all. The type of string used for amulets is a yarn made of several strands, and they will fray without the stiffening, unravel and make threading the needle a long and frustrating experience.

The pliers are optional, actually. I found that the aperture in the baghnakh was narrow, and it required some force to push the needle through. Then I found that my arthritic fingers couldn't draw it through. I pulled the needle through with the pliers. I suppose it is worse if you have to make the aperture in the first place. Waiting for the varnish to dry took the longest time in the operation.

After all the time and trouble, I wore the baghnakh charm again, a couple of days ago. Yesterday morning I got out of bed with the usual groan. My backache was very much there. The baghnakh didn't work, this time.

Wait, I threaded them onto black string. Perhaps it ought to be red for it to work. Now I am off to get some red string.

Cheers!

Ode to an unknown singer

2007-08-26T16:59:00.000+05:30

It wasn't a ride. It was a crawl. From SP Mukherjee Road it just got worse. Stop and start, stop and start. An overcast sky with no promise of imminent rain was no help either. I just sweated in the cab.

After many pauses and arbitrary stops because citizens of Calcutta cross streets where they want, we achieved Hazra Crossing; waited what seemed like an eternity. Negotiated the crossing and were stalled in yet another instance of pedestrians taking to the road. We reached Elgin Road crossing, to wait some three minutes. Lower Circular Road Flyover? Sigh. Get chased off the lane by buses coming in from the Minto Park connector turning into Chowringhee and worse.

The driver was adept, unlike some I have come across. He had good anticipation and knew the streets well. It is fascinating to hear cars starting up in preparation for the signal change, from right at the junction to further back. The sound ripples back in a wave as all drivers turn ignition switches on. The driver was right on cue, whether switching off to wait the signal out or turning the ignition on.

Flyovers are nothing but traffic bottlenecks in waiting. We descended the fly-over to find ourselves in another wait. The road ahead seemed filled with all the buses in Calcutta. Cabs too, and people getting on and off buses in the middle of this chaos, trusting to providence. I can't really call it a traffic jam; it was only Calcutta traffic on a normal day.

I boasted once before that I don't get bored; not even in traffic, waiting for signals to change or endless streams of demonstrators to pass. There is always something to observe, there are billboards to look at and people to watch. So I wasn't exactly bored when I heard the call.

Mitwaa

For a moment I wondered if Rafi reincarnated into a bass voice. I must be hallucinating, I decided.

Mere yaar

I located the source. A stocky man of middle years, weaving among the waiting cars and buses, with a toy microphone of garishly coloured recycled plastic in one hand. On the other arm hung a bag, full of more of them, I supposed.

It was a marvellous voice. That mitwa was perfect Rafi, getting the fervour and plaintive tone accurately even if pitched lower than Rafi ever sang. This voice was ideal for street vending. And when he executed that mere yaar, the timbre was perfect, the descants exact.

The taxi moved forward, and the traffic surged ahead.

Tujhko baar baar

His voice floated from behind. I smiled. It was still a long way to go, we had barely entered Central Avenue, but suddenly I was buoyed. Awaaz main na doonga, I sang in my head, following the tune. All the way to Sovabazar and back home, Rafi and the song kept me in good humour.

On the way back, I kept a look out for him. I wanted to buy one of those toy mikes; not to playact singing into, my voice has a range of about half an octave after all, I just wanted to show my appreciation for his vending method. The traffic was smoother, and we whizzed past where I heard him.

I wanted to thank him for that gift of gladness, so sudden and unexpected.

Cheers!

Pointless Post

2007-08-23T16:45:00.000+05:30

Dear Reader who wrote to ask if I am okay,

Yes, I am fine. No, I haven't shut up shop. Nor do I have writer's block, not as such. It's like this:

What I really want to write about has to wait- two superb puzzles by Enigmatist. I can't talk about the weekly prize puzzle till next Monday, and the Genius puzzle will have to wait until next month. When I solve 32 and 26 letter anagrams I'd like to crow about it, but I can't yet. Hence the silence.

Thank you for suggesting I could write about hendiadys or diphthongs and dangling participles. I am sure this blog's readers will be suitably agog. You suggested I could hold forth about the difference between 'few' and 'a few' or the misuse of 'off' when people write 'off late' instead of 'of late'. I have already been dubbed Grammar Nazi, thank you.

I am not running out of ideas, you see, I am waiting to write about those crosswords, that is all. You also said I could do another pointless post. Here goes.

Did you know that deliver is reviled written backwards? 'Threaten, never battle' is an anagram of better late than never. 'Weak state shames' because haste makes waste. 'Loony pawnshop is undefined' if penny wise and pound foolish. 'Worsened self-seeker perspires' since finders keepers, losers weepers.

Frank Sinatra must have liked French artists. Haven't you heard 'Matisse this thing called love'? Not to mention 'I'm always chasing Rimbauds'. When it comes to accolades from the show biz though, Spanish artists win hands down. Even I know about 'Hello Dali".

Cheers!

Across the pale parabola of joy

2007-08-16T18:10:00.000+05:30

Many critics, no defenders,
Translators have but two regrets:
When we hit, no one remembers,
When we miss, no one forgets.

That pithy and prolific writer, Anonymous.

Translation is a tightrope walk. The question that lies before a translator is always whether to follow the spirit of the work or the exact text. Voltaire says that literal translations, by rendering every word, weaken the meaning.

To translate, one must have a style of his own, for otherwise the translation will have no rhythm or nuance, which come from the process of artistically thinking through and molding the sentences; they cannot be reconstituted by piecemeal imitation. -- Paul Goodman.

Then there is the question of idiom and syntax. What works in one language will sound awkward in another. 'All over the sky lay strewn comparison to your laughter' reads perfectly awful, whereas akashey akashey aachhilo chhadaano tomaaro haashir tulanaa is beautifully evocative. How does one translate 'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?' Metaphors sometimes can't be carried over. Summer's day won't work in Indian languages, as it evokes sweating and sweltering. Coolness is the same as aloofness, distance, being formal, in English. In Telugu coolness is nice, not nasty, being pleasant and benevolent and more. Different climates produce different idioms, and different cultures shape the languages.

Cultural references and classical allusions are hard to translate. How does one translate జీవితవైతరణి jeevita vaitaraNi? As it was my own poem, I translated it as 'the Styx of life', but would I have approved if somebody else did that? What does 'generous as Karna' mean to readers who didn't grow up with the tales of Mahabharata?

If prose is difficult, translating poetry is even more fraught. There are always layers of meanings, and the same word can have several meanings in Indian languages.

When I wrote about the songs in Malleeswari, I'd said that I wouldn't even attempt a translation of manasuna mallela maalaoogenE. Garlands of jasmines swayed in mind, is the literal translation of that line. It is metaphor for idyllic bliss. Does one translate the sense or the text? Will a faithful translation of that languid imagery evoke the same sense of joy and elation?

A couple of days ago, a reader who happened to come across my blog searching for pilachina biguvaTaraa wrote to me, sending his translation of the two songs. An interesting discussion ensued, as he chose to interpret 'vEnuvu savvaDi' as sound of wind in bamboo shoots rather than sound of flute. While I agreed with it, I quibbled at his rendition. If one can manage to translate in approximately the same length and word order, always excepting grammatical considerations, it is better to follow the original as closely as one can; he didn't.

The pleasure of translation lies in picking and choosing the words, dithering over word order, looking up exact meanings and finding the best way to render the original into another language. So I had a wonderful couple of hours with the song, once I yielded to the temptation to translate the untranslatable.

Do I say garland or wreath or chaplet or lei? Is festoon better? Is bratuku life or existence? Is haayi peace or comfort or happiness? Can galagala be rustle or should it be chuckle? Is kolanu a lake or a pond? Past tense sounds awkward in English, should I make it present perfect? Present continuous? panduTa is to ripen but it means completion, so how do I say it?

Such are the pleasures and perils of translation. And here is my version of 'manasuna mallela' that brilliant lyric of Devulapalli Krishna Sastry.
మనసున మల్లెల మాలలూగెనే కన్నుల వెన్నెల డోలలూగెనే
ఎంత హాయి ఈ రేయి నిండెనో ఎన్నినాళ్ళకీ బ్రతుకు పండెనో

కొమ్మల గువ్వలు గుసగుసమనినా రెమ్మల గాలులు ఉసురుసురనినా
అలలు కొలనులో గలగలమనినా దవ్వుల వేణువు సవ్వడి వినినా
నీవు వచ్చేవని నీ పిలుపే విని కన్నుల నీరిడి కలయచూచితిని
గడియయేని యిక విడిచిపోకుమా ఎగసిన హృదయము పగులనీకుమా

ఎన్నినాళ్ళకీ బ్రతుకు పండెనో, ఎంత హాయి ఈ రేయి నిండెనో

manasuna mallela maalaloogenE kannula vennela DOlaloogenE
enta haayi ee rEyi ninDenO enninaaLLakee bratuku panDenO

kommala guvvalu gusagusamaninaa remmala gaalulu usurusuraninaa
alalu kolanilO galagalamaninaa davvula vENuvu savvaDi vininaa
neevu vachchEvani nee pilupE vini kannula neeriDi kalayachoochitini
gaDiyayEni yika viDichipOkumaa egasina hRdayamu pagulaneekumaa

enninaaLLakee bratuku panDenO, enta haayi ee rEyi ninDenO

Garlands of jasmines sway in my mind
Moonlight shimmers in eyes.
What sublime peace suffuses this night!
After so long, this existence fulfilled.

When doves murmured on boughs
Or breezes sighed in sprigs,
If waves gurgled in the pond
And distant woodwind sounded
Thinking you arrived, hearing only your call
I looked all round with brimming eyes.
Don't leave me now, even for a moment
Lest this exultant heart break.

After so long, this existence fulfilled;
What sublime peace suffuses this night!

Cheers!

What was I thinking?

2007-08-13T18:12:00.000+05:30

I wonder if the citizens of New York will ever get sufficiently wroth
To remember that Tammany cooks spoil the broth.

Ogden Nash

I mentioned that I always keep a notepad close at hand to jot down random thoughts. All these might not work out, turn into poems or posts, but at least they are set down for later consideration. At least, that is the theory. What happens is, a couple of lines written encapsulating what you thought was the crux of the matter, the absolute heart of the idea, become meaningless when read a few days later.

In this notepad I have a page with the brilliantly original title, post ideas. Reading the notes, a couple of lines or a phrase, I am mystified. I have no idea what these jottings mean, how I was planning to develop the thoughts or why I thought it worth writing them down. Some I can figure out, some are too cryptic, and some are downright silly.

Across the pale parabola of joy: I remember the Psmith novel, of course, but I don't recall why I wrote down that hilarious first line of the poem Psmith tries to read, and in what context. Or was it going to be a post title?

S'il vous plaît, Madame: If I please what, and why in French?

Tenser calculus, yeah! This cryptic note to self is incomprehensible. What was it about?

Like the deaf adder that stoppeth her ear which will not hearken to the voice of charmers, charming never so wisely. Psalm 58 Verse 4: What was I going to write about? I wish I could remember. How was I going to use this?

Tenser, said the tensor: At last, something that makes sense. I know what this was going to be about. On ear worms- snatches of songs or poetry that lodge themselves in your brain and refuse to vacate. On James Joyce… 'beside the rivering waters of, the hithering and thithering waters of Night…' and all that. I was going mention Alfred Bester and The Demolished Man,

"Eight, sir; seven sir;
Six, sir; five;
Four, sir; three, sir;
Two sir; one!
Tenser, said the Tensor.
Tenser, said the Tensor.
Tension, apprehension,
And dissension have begun."

and why advertising jingles employ musical cliches.

Love tepid water? Scan hob. Gmail: It's an anagram of 'a watched pot never boils'. But what was I going to write about? Where does Gmail come into it?

Same old, same old: I think this was a grouse about blog aggregators linking to the same few bloggers all the time.

"No comment." Was this another grumble? Moaning about how I don't get any comments? Or was it something else?

The gliding vowel. Rain, voice, aisle, height: A diphthong is called the gliding vowel, but what more can I say about it? And why those examples? What was it about?

Prudence: Says another note, tersely and cryptically. I wish I had been prudent and elaborated on that word. Now I am going crazy trying to remember.

Invest in machines, I state: Another anagram post idea, I think. A stitch in time saves nine, but I have no idea how I was going to develop this.

But what flummoxes me is this: 32+42=52 ROTFL. What on earth was I thinking of when I jotted that gem down?

Cheers!

Cryptic, made difficult

2007-08-12T01:00:00.000+05:30

In 1897, Gurazada Appa Rao wrote his play Kanyasulkam for several reasons; for social reform, to popularise vernacular and spoken Telugu over the literary dialect then extant and more. It had a comic first scene where a tutor dictates a list of books to be purchased for holiday tuition. The hilarious dictation goes like this:

"1 Royal Reader; 2 Manuel Grammar; 3 Ghosh Geometry; 4 Bose Algebra; 5 Srinivasa Iyer Arithmetic; 6 Nalacharitra; 7 Rajasekharacharitra; 8 General English; 9 Venkata Subba Rao Made Easy…" and after some dialogue, comes the kicker: "10 Kuppusami Iyer Made Difficult."

When anybody asks me how I solve cryptic crosswords I usually reply, clue by clue. It's that simple. I keep at it until the grid is all filled in, that's all. I've been dying to tell you all about a recent crossword, but since I was taken to task about ujamaa and posting about a crossword the day it was published, I decided to wait until now.

I love alphabetical jigsaw crosswords. Araucaria invented these. Usually there are twenty-eight clues, each starting with a letter of the alphabet, two of them featuring twice. The grid is such that it is obvious where these doubles go. This comes in useful, as the clues aren't numbered and you are instructed to disregard the numbers in the grid. There are only two squares where the starting letter of an across clue and a down clue can meet, after all.

Two weeks ago, the Saturday prize puzzle in Guardian was an Araucaria alphabetical jigsaw. The grid pattern had one across thirteen letters long. This is another useful indicator, since as you solve the long clues there are only four places for them to be inserted and you need only try one or two to arrive at the starting point. This, and figuring out where the doubles go, and you are set. You have to solve the clues first, of course, that goes without saying.

Unlike my regular crosswords, I print the grid and the clues when I do the alphabetical jigsaws. Once I solve the easier and obvious ones, I make lists of them on the sides of the grid, one each for clue lengths. For this crossword, there were ten clues five letters long, four seven letters long, ten nine letters long, and the four aforementioned thirteen letters long clues.

Once you have a few solved, you can figure where they fit in the grid, and that in turn gives a few letters in other clues. If these are the beginning letters of a solution, then you have a bit more filled in.

The clues are listed alphabetically, but solving never is. You solve the ones that leap out as obvious, and the anagrams are quickly figured out. The combinations, where other devices and anagrams are both present take longer. The really tough clues require pondering and research.

This crossword was one of the easier alphabetical jigsaws I solved. The long clues started with J, Q, X and Y. I am tempted to tell you all about all the twenty-eight clues, but I am selflessly restricting myself to the cleverest ones, so write in and say thanks nicely.

C gave me the most trouble, and was the last I solved, really. C. Senior officer's half turn towards danger when surrounded (9)

By the time I reached the solution, I had c-n---r-d pencilled in. CO for commanding officer, I thought. The r-d was red for danger, so I had to figure out the middle part. It had me flummoxed, thinking of army, navy and air force ranks. It wasn't until I thought of commander in chief, or C-in -C that I got it. C in C, half turn, that is 'tu' and red, the whole meaning when surrounded. It is a brilliant clue.

K required some research. K. Job's second piece of work has a lot of green cloth backing (5)

This made no sense at all, at first. I couldn't decide what the definition was. Cloth backing could be stage backdrop. Was there a special name for that? Second piece of work? By the time I reached the solution, I knew it had to be k-z-a, which seemed improbable but the rest of the solutions were all filled in correctly, so it had to be that. Part of work could be k, I decided. A lot of green cloth backing could be most of baize backward, but why? Job as Biblical character perhaps? Second? Research to see how many children Job had and names if any. Eureka! Kezia is Job's daughter. Brilliant again.

T was the wittiest. T. Local officer, zany Saracen to Spooner if American (4,5)

This is pure Araucaria. Local officer is the definition. Spoonerism is a device Araucaria, Paul and other compilers use regularly. Zany Saracen would be 'clown Turk' and here, if American indicates 'as heard'. The solution is town clerk.

U required checking atlases for verification. U. Immortal student leaving island in Gabon (7)

The solution was easy enough, but crosschecking took time. One doesn't fill in the solution in a prize puzzle lightly, after all. So Lundy, an island in Bristol Channel, (sigh) without 'el'; add in, plus G' for Gabon, a republic on the West Coast of Africa. Araucaria bodes signs that he will be, like the solution, undying perhaps undergoing the other option from harps and halos.

But the clue that chuffed me, made me smile and pump my fists in triumph as I solved it was a beaut. It isn't easy compiling crossword clues, it's that much harder doing themes, but to set clues that start with specified letters of the alphabet and to make them fit the grid, to make them witty, to make them work, that takes rare brilliance. Okay, it takes a touch of fiendishness too but I am willing to forgive him.

X was a grand clue in true Araucaria fashion. X. Indicator on plan for decimal currency when St Hugh first topped tyrant (1,5,3,4)

I giggled as I read the clue. It is easier to solve the Zs and Xs and Ys of an alphabetical jigsaw crossword than the other letters. Qs might just cut the ice as breaking into the club of super tough alphabet to start a clue with, of course, but Xs and Zs rule. And this clue rocked.

Indicator on plan is the definition. It is quirky. X for decimal followed by mark for currency, then it gets zany. Saint Hugh first, working out to St and h, heh. And then comes the topped tyrant, despot with the first letter removed. X marks the spot. O frabjous day!

While I was sermonising Solving Cryptic Clues 101 all these months, there's this young man who taught me how to go about it. He taught me how to insert hyperlinks, how to tinker with my template (he tweaked it for me, good grief), and gave more lessons, on anything I thought to ask him. He even scripts spoofs of all popular movies so I needn't see them, but he is considerate that way. Too popular to need a plug, I congratulate you all the same, Praveen. Well done!

Cheers!

Love in a rocking chair

2007-08-09T22:06:00.000+05:30

I sit here in my rocking chair
And remember the times
When my arms clasped you close
Body straining against body

I sit here rocking

Through thick and thin
In sickness and health
In fascination need and longing
I remember clawing

I sit here rocking

All the nights of tangled limbs
Hesitant caresses urgent hands
Your skin silk in moonlight
My legs wrapped around you

I sit here rocking

Toothless we are and wrinkled
Aches and pains and aging
But it was only yesterday
Those nights of unbridled lust

I sit here rocking

Cheers!

Post script: This poem is dedicated to the soon to be emperor of the universe, in blatant toadying so I will be declared Court Poetess.

Pencilled in

2007-08-04T18:09:00.000+05:30

I am vexed; irritated, miffed and nettled, too. I know I tend to get annoyed at silly things, but the pencils are the last straw in a day filled with irritants.

Don't snigger, I use pencils. All right, snigger if you want to. Yes, I know I am not a mother of a schoolboy any more and that there are oodles of kinds of pens to be had out there, but I use pencils. I have my reasons.

I print prize puzzles to solve at leisure; they can't be solved in one sitting, anyway. Now it is arrogant and silly to start filling the solutions in ink, when you aren't sure of them. What if you fill in a provisional solution in ink and have to change it later? How many times will you overwrite before it looks a right mess and you have to print the puzzle again? It makes sense to use a pencil then.

I always have a notepad nearby, to jot down thoughts and ideas, phone numbers or messages, or a list of things to do the next day. This pad is where I arrange my daily life.

I use the notepad for poems too. While I jot down post ideas or thoughts with a pen, I use a pencil for the poems. Don't laugh, it makes sense. When you are fiddling with the order of words or lines, when you are dithering over a word, wondering if it sounds right, it's simpler to use a pencil.

Even if you space the lines wide, how many crossings out, over-writings or writing above or below will it be before the whole thing is a thorough mess and you can't make sense of the lines anymore? So I work with a pencil. It helps too when I am translating. I write down the original stanza by stanza, leaving a six or seven line gap in between to fill in the translation. If I worked with a pen it won't be long before I'd have to use another page and start all over again.

And for some reason, my handwriting is always neater and more legible when I write with a pencil. Give me a pen and I will write you a scrawl.

It's my bit for the planet, too. I don't know how many trees make a notepad, but if I can manage a poem on a single sheet of paper by using a pencil, I'd rather do that than waste some three or four because I was using a pen. This is the reason why I print on both sides of a paper, too. Crosswords and such trivial pursuits ought not to consume much of our precious resources, so even if flipping back and forth is inconvenient, I prefer to do that than waste an entire side of a paper by leaving it blank.

Maybe this is my upbringing. We were repeatedly admonished not to waste things, to stretch things and make them last. Things were recycled; clothes were handed down, bed sheets became slipcovers became kitchen towels became dusters became floor mops until they became tatters and imaginative uses were found for those, too. We conserved things. Built-in obsolescence is an obscenity to me.

We were trained to turn switches off before leaving a room, close a tap tight, conserve water (Madrasis can give lessons in water discipline to Frank Herbert's Fremen, ha); save, reuse, preserve, conserve was the mantra dinned into us. Perhaps this is why the hijacking of the adjective conservative incenses me. The original meaning of the word was being careful of resources and managing them well.

All right, rant over. To get back to my grouse: pencils.

Mothers of school-going children know all about pencils; how they keep getting lost, misplaced, stolen, taken off by a bully, whatever. What they never get is worn down to a stub. They seem to get sucked into some black hole before they get half way used. I remember writing with pencils that were almost too small to get a decent grip on. But these days, pencils never last that long.

Maybe it is shoddy manufacture, maybe nobody cares but these days, pencil points keep breaking after you reach a third of the way down the length. It doesn't matter the make, brand or company. I've tried all sorts. My current crop of pencils is Steadtler, but no matter who make them, the points break off as you sharpen them once they become shorter.

I know what I am talking about, okay? I've just spent some ten minutes trying to sharpen a pencil. Any pencil. I have three Staedtler Mars Lumograph 100 2Bs in front of me, of varying lengths, the shortest being three inches and a half (yes, I measured them). Not one of them will take a point. I sharpen them, and the points keep breaking off.

I have the Times Crossword Club Monthly to solve, some cryptic clues I am trying to compile in Telugu, a poem I am working on and the pencils won't get sharp. Why? Is this a conspiracy to aggravate me?

Cheers!

Problem loading page

2007-07-30T18:17:00.000+05:30

If anything can go wrong, it will, states Murphy's Law. It's worse in the weekend is a corollary I am adding.

Server not found, my browser informed me for the umpteenth time. It has been some ten days since the fire at the Telephone Bhavan, and my broadband connection is still playing up. I was rather impressed by the fact that I could log on and get somewhere the day after the fire, actually. But then it degenerated, kept on doing so. Since Friday I am reduced to being pathetically grateful if I can check my mail before the connection goes kaput for the umptyumpth time.

There is no point calling BSNL and complaining. The interactive voice thingie just gives a complaint number and that is that. Nothing happens after that; they don't call and verify if your problem is solved, they don't come and solve your problem, they don't even acknowledge that you have a problem.

Being a Sunday, by Murphy's Law, today the connection was so bad that I just managed to solve the Times concise crossword. I'd opened the cryptic but they goofed, with the grid and clues not matching. I solved the clues, but that is pointless if I can't fill in the grid. And then the broadband died, again.

Fine. I can find other ways to amuse myself. I discovered that 'curiosity killed the cat' yields the anagram 'totally thicker suicide' and that the 'Resident Mathematician' is a 'deterministic anathema'. Not that they do, but if anagrams pall, I can always play games, of course.

In the old days when home computers were new, I used to play a very simple game, 'Breakthrough', involving a ball and a paddle and a screen full of straight lines that you had to clear. If you could angle the dents your ball made, you could sit back and relax as it wreaked havoc on the lines on the upper half of the screen. There was no applause or bells and whistles if you managed to clear the screen, you could keep the ball in play endlessly until you got bored and closed the program. It was a primitive game, I know, but it used to be fun. That was on my cousin's El Cheapo computer. Then there was Frogger, and the text-based games my cousin used to install, typing seemingly endless rows of gobbledygook of numbers from computer magazines like inCider and such. I rather liked those games.

When we acquired a computer, I used to play Minesweeper rather than Solitaire. Also, there were games we'd acquire from friends, trading copies of pirated versions. I played Prince of Persia from a copy acquired from friends. Since it was pirated, there was no way to save a game; you had to play it from start to finish, with seconds ticking away. My son used to finish it under half an hour, but I never managed to crack it in less than fifty-five minutes.

The one game in the later era that I liked and played through was Starship Titanic. It was semi text-based, and hilarious. I loved the parrot squawking 'Unhand me, you, you, person!' and the Doorbot's monologues. You only had to type an impertinent question to be deluged with repartee Douglas Adams dreamed up for the contingency. It was visually pleasing, too.

Another brilliant game I enjoyed was Discworld Noir, not just because it was based on Terry Pratchett's books; the sheer ingenuity of how the plot unfolded was wonderful and the dialogue was hugely entertaining.

But these are games that involve some active thinking and problem solving. Ballgames engage only the tiniest portion of conscious effort and leave most of mind free to contemplate other things. Hand-eye coordination is important in moving a mouse or pressing buttons on a joypad, yes, but it requires minimal attention while one can think things through.

To be honest, I prefer ballgames. Pinball, the old games of Powerball or Bananas and suchlike are more to my taste than scampering through level after violent level mindlessly killing left and right. There were a few pinball games my sister sent on a diskette, that I really loved playing. Duke Nukem, Quake, Doom and such are my son's preferred stuff, but other than Prince, I never really enjoyed such action or role-playing games. I wasn't much impressed by the later versions of Prince either, other than to chuckle at the belly dance sequence in the 3D version's intro.

But for sheer addictive power Minesweeper is the Broken Drum, it can't be beaten. I am not a fan of Solitaire and versions thereof, but Minesweeper is a perennial favourite when I need to think a post through. Don't laugh. It works wonders, it really does. It's equivalent of contemplating one's navel and telling rosary beads.

The current favourite ballgame is Magic Ball. I got rather hooked on the trial version, and bought it when the trial period expired. It has hundreds of levels and can be played endlessly. There are interesting prizes, and if you can catch all the letters of the word, there is a lovely sequence of a rainbow arcing up and vanishing.

On a dreary Sunday, when it is overcast with no rain, when the broadband is dead and I am bored, the prospect of a rainbow on my monitor seems inviting. I am off to play Magic Ball then.

Cheers!

A beaten path

2007-07-27T16:05:00.000+05:30

Memory: a beaten path in the brain.

It is strange how memory works. The triggers and associations are odd and sometimes inexplicable; we just don't know what reminds us of what other things and why.

The smell of asfoetida in hot oil sometimes reminds me of the small furry caterpillars that used to infest the tamarind trees in our Madras home. One fell on me once, and I had an allergic reaction that had my arm swollen in angry red blotches that took days to fade. I don't know why the smell of hing reminds me of caterpillars, though.

Frogs after rain remind me of a walk back home after a late night concert from Vani Mahal, wading in ankle-deep puddles, my escort and I both humming the Kaanada kriti Sukhi Evvaro. He remarked that the frogs were perfect accompanists for our unmusical efforts. I agreed.

I'd just started on the day's crosswords when the phone rang. It was for K, his quasi-student from Bombay, wanting to clear doubts or sort out technique and suchlike. I handed the phone to him and turned my attention back to the clues. It was Paul's crossword, I was chuckling and frowning my way through it, so it registered only peripherally that K was singing into the phone.

Double jeopardy securing work, then left in fix (12)

I mused. Double jeopardy. That is Jhinjhoti he is singing. Hmm, work would be op, then left in fix? Rig, tie, pin? Or is it an anagram indicator? What is double jeopardy? Legal term, I think. Let's look it up. Why am I thinking of Kedaragoula?

Bail out sovereign with money - bread (12)

I thought further. Sovereign is ER, anagram of bail before? Let's see. But Jhinjhoti is Yadukula Kambhoji, right, so where did Kedaragoula come from? Hmm, bail out as sailing term, perhaps? Money. Dollar, cents okay, nickel. Got it.

Pulmonary vein's blood is taken round next day, for example in circulation (10)

I laughed as I figured this out. Granted, they are both derived from Harikambhoji but the ascent is different. He is still singing, talking of da ra di ri di ri and chikaras.

Some thing to do, note, unfortunately prohibited (8)

This gave me some trouble as I goofed the across clue, filling in fervour instead of forever. It took me a while to sort that out and the Kedaragoula question took a back seat. I completed the crossword, and listened to the lesson he was giving on the phone.

Music lessons have evolved somewhat since I learned veena from Chittibabu. Learning from a teacher is the best way, of course, but you can teach yourself too. These days you can get online lessons on anything. And K teaches this occasional student over the phone. The young man sits in front of a speaker phone with his sarod and plays, K correcting him, giving feedback and suggestions, the distance between Bombay and Calcutta becoming meaningless.

"Honey, there is an apt clue today," I said as he concluded his conversation. "Phone call impossible, given cutoff point, eight." He laughed. Teaching over phone would be impossible with a dead line, after all.

"That was Jhinjhoti, right?"
"Yeah, your Yadukula Kambhoji."
"So why do I keep thinking of Kedaragoula?"
"How should I know?"

I shrugged. It's a mystery. Maybe I will figure it out, maybe I won't. Later in the evening, I checked my site tracker. I saw that there came a visitor who was looking for "chittibabu cuckoo song notation". Eureka! The memory came flooding back, and I realised why the Jhinjhoti lesson imparted over phone reminded me of Kedaragoula.

There were no speaker phones when I learnt from Chittibabu, of course, but I heard him teach over the phone, once. It was in the early days of my lessons with him. I had gone for a lesson, and just crossed the threshold when I heard his voice. He was in an inner room, on the phone; ri sa ri maa ga ri- ma ga ree ga- sa ri ma pa ni, I heard him sing.

(Chittibabu had a wonderful voice, a lovely baritone that could descend to bass or rise to high tenor as he did wickedly accurate imitations of musicians and their mannerisms. I treasure the memory of his mimicking MD Ramanathan singing Sahana. It used to slay me when he did the pointed squinty glare as he retied an imaginary topknot. With some discipline and quitting of smoking, he could have sung concerts if he chose, he was that good.)

He was singing Kedaragoula, going over the chittasvaram of the kriti Saraguna Palimpa, by Ramanadhapuram Srinivasa Iyengar. That was the first time I heard the raga, and the phrase seemed wonderful. He must be clarifying things for an out-station student, I supposed as I stood listening.

maa-a-a- pa ni da paa da- ma pa ma ga ri, he went back to the beginning of the chittasvaram and sang it through. When he came to the repetition of ri sa ri maa ga ri in the higher octave and the conclusion, I fell in love with the chittasvaram, and Kedaragoula.

No wonder the Jhinjhoti lesson on the phone reminded me of Kedaragoula. The confusion arose because Jhinjhoti is closer to Yadukula Kambhoji, and it wasn't until I saw his name that the penny dropped.

The solutions, if you haven't got them yet, are doppelganger, pumpernickel, oxygenated and verboten.

Cheers!

Hellogoodevening

2007-07-24T17:24:00.000+05:30

I stood on the threshold and surveyed the room. It is the waiting room of my dentist's chambers. It is a large room, with two L shaped seating arrangements against the walls, one smaller than the other, to accommodate the receptionist's desk.

There were five people on the long arm of the larger settee, and two on the shorter arm of the L. I could have joined the five, I suppose, twice that number could sit comfortably there, but two things stopped me.

The first was the sculpture set into a niche next to the receptionist's desk. It is of a dancing girl; the kind one can buy in any art emporium that sells knick-knacks. The girl is curvaceous, the pose slightly unreal, and the whole overly ornate. If I joined the five, I'd have to stare at those impossible breasts.

The second was the receptionist. She is a nice woman, friendly and talkative. She arranges the dentist's schedule, deals with phone calls and has done so for the last twenty years. Many were the times I sat there in the room with my son, waiting his turn and listened to her answer calls.

She'd be talking to some of the patients, break off when the phones rang, pick up a receiver and warble, "Hellogoodevening," the words all running together on a rising inflection of a question. My son and I would carefully avoid looking at each other. Years after his braces came off my son can still imitate that 'hellogoodevening' perfectly.

So I sat on the other side of the room, and looked at the people already waiting. There were seven, but that didn't worry me, not all of them would be patients. Most people go to a doctor with family in tow.

There were a man and a woman, with an overnight bag between them, out-station patients obviously. The woman was pecking with a tiny stylus at her cell phone, the man sending a text message on his. I took an instant dislike to the woman. She had dangling down her front, on those unsightly cords, a crocheted pouch, no less. I dislike people who wear their cell phones round their necks on principle, and that pouch was a personal affront.

The other three opposite me seemed to be together, two women and a man. One of the women wore a ghastly candyfloss pink sari, with some embroidered details, as if they could make up for that unfortunate colour. The other woman wore a handloom sari in a pathetic combination of yellows and browns and paired it with a blouse whose print added more discord. The man seemed colourless and silent; obviously connected to them, but either in too much dental agony to acknowledge them or too embarrassed to be seen with them.

The other two men under the Jamini Roy reproduction seemed unrelated, one barking tersely in to his phone every few minutes, and the other dourly staring at the floor. That man's phone rang seven times while I waited. I counted.

The phone on the desk rang, and the receptionist picked it up. I hastily looked at the paintings on the wall to stop myself sniggering as the 'hellogoodevening' rang out. Those paintings are a good way to stifle mirth. There were three studies of a same androgynous face in glum watercolours, and an abstract I have never been able to make sense of. That face bothers me; I dislike those paintings, and have spent many minutes trying to figure out why.

The dentist arrived, and the silent man in agony and the lady in pink went in, leaving the non-vision in brown and yellow to wait. She stared at her hands. I stared at that face in those paintings as the phone rang again.

Two men entered the room. Tweedledum and Tweedledee, I thought to myself. Both were rotund and seemed related. Not brothers, but cousins, I guessed. One wore a fine-check shirt tucked into ill-fitting trousers that ended a good inch above the ankles. The shirt strained at the buttons, and a belt bisected the barrel-like paunch and struggled to hold the trousers up. It is sad, I thought, that men live to his age and still have no idea how to dress.

Then he sat down opposite me, the laughing Buddha impersonator. I noticed that his zipper found the strain of holding together too much and gave up. I resolutely looked at the abstract, since it was the furthest on the wall, and quoted Terry Pratchett to myself.

"Oh, random fluctuations-in-the-space-time-continuum!…Aaargh, primitive-and-outmoded-concept-on-a-crutch!"

Why me? What did I do to deserve this roomful of people? Where can I look at now? Why didn't I think of bringing a book?

"You can go in now, Lalita," said the receptionist. I got up gratefully and escaped the room.

Cheers!

Thinking of you

2007-07-22T18:34:00.000+05:30

Compose Mail, urges Gmail. As if it is so easy.

I need a reason to write, don't I? The to: field is easy, you know? I only have to type the first letter of your name, and Gmail helpfully offers to complete it. It even suggests others whose names begin with the same letter, whom I might want to write to. No thanks I say, I want to write to you; and you alone.

The subject field presents problems, though. I don't like to leave it blank. But just how many ways can I say 'simply', 'because', 'just like that', 'yunhi', 'summa', 'uTTinE'? That I am writing because I am thinking of you?

I think of it as writing letters, when I should be thinking of it as mailing. Other people write short notes; one-sentence mails with no salutations or taking leave. I tend to say 'dear so and so' and ramble in several paragraphs and take leave carefully. Mailing is short if not always sweet, and to the point. My writing to you has no point other than I want to write to you, to connect again and make sure you are still there. It is just seeking confirmation.

But, why should I be thinking of you? Why do you stick around in my head? You are my latest obsession, that is why. I write these letters mails whatever, some three or four a day, simply because I am thinking of you.

I once had an interesting discussion if we repeat our idiocies in love. If you squirt the letters with perfume, or kiss the envelop before you post it, do you repeat such things when you fall in love again, when the mere recollection of it makes you cringe in chagrin and pity at the idiot you were then? Not that anybody does such things in these days of emails and text messages, but do you repeat jokes or puns you perpetrate? Do you say the same things to the next love? Do you quote the same poets and the same lines?

I was shocked to even think of such a thing. How can you say the same thing to two persons? Yes, you are enamoured but they aren't the same people, so how can you use the same words? It is an insult to both of them to recycle things said.

My obsession with you is new, so why would I say what I said to another? You are not that person. The equation is different, our common ground is different, and I am not the same person I was when I obsessed about the other. That was then, this is now. I have fresh words for you, surely?

Anyway, I am writing now because I have this brilliant idea.

In the subject field I will type 'thinking of you' and I will change my signature to state -- Yours in obsession. And hit the send button. Every time I feel this urge to write to you. That says it all, doesn't it? I won't even have to type the subject again, the first couple of letters and Gmail helpfully fills in the rest.

What do you think?

One hug is enough

2007-07-20T17:46:00.000+05:30

I've said this before, that most of my online friends are young. Many of them are male and I dub them all my toyboys. Some appoint themselves my toyboys, some aspire to toyboy status, some deny indignantly that they fall into the category, but the Non Resident Mathematician is the one I consider true toyboy material: young, bright, talented and good-looking to boot.

It's a year since I last saw him. He'd visited before going off to join the hordes of young IT professionals in the fair city of Bangalore. I'd expected the year to have changed him somewhat. I'd expected that he'd look mature, perhaps acquire suavity. But he looked the same as he did when he was a student-- young and vulnerable. He still dressed in his trademark black tee shirt too.

I remarked on that as I stepped back from hugging him.

"But you look different every time I see you," he said. That's because my hair keeps changing colour, I smiled. That is true. Every time we met, my hair was whatever colour my stylist chose for that month, and now I had highlights, too.

Meeting online buddies and friends for lunch or coffee is one thing, but this toyboy is different. He comes home and talks to my husband, rummages in my shelves, checks his mail on my computer, and generally brightens the rooms he wanders into.

He'd called a couple of weeks earlier, to make sure I'll keep a day free for him to take me to lunch. Now as he said hello to my husband and told us of his experiences as an IT professional, I looked at him.

And he is worth looking at. Tall and well built, he has a strong jaw line, lovely eyelashes and a smile that flashes once in a while and transforms his brooding face into that of a wicked little boy. Friends can tease, and outsiders snigger at the incongruity, but this is a toyboy good to be seen with, a testimony of my good taste in young men.

As we stopped at an ATM, I realised that though he still looked like an impecunious student, he is now an independent young man in a well paying job, taking his friend out for lunch. This lunch was going to be his treat.

The nice thing about him is that he doesn't talk to fill up silences. Most young people find silence unnerving but my toyboy knows that silence is the best indicator of how comfortable we are with others.

As the taxi crawled in intermittent showers and slow traffic, we talked desultorily. I told him about my son's debating, he told me of his girls; I told him about my arthritis and he told me about his pumping iron. We admired Calcutta's crop of pretty young things as we passed them and reminisced about our other dates.

He tasted my margarita and grimaced, and I laughed. All the multiplexes and malls and eating out in Bangalore haven't given him a taste for spirits, clearly. We mixed cuisine and had tikkas for starters and pasta for the main course, and shared the dessert. Through the meal we talked. I told him of my latest obsessions and he told me of his lack of any. He asked me about blogging; if I still enjoyed it. I related a few stories and retailed some gossip.

As I was betting with myself, our waiter gave the bill to me. This never fails. Whether I am lunching with toyboys or blogging friends, the bill is always given me. A deeply offended toyboy once remarked that he earned more in a month than I earned in all my life, so why did the waiter give the bill to me? Because I am the older person, I'd said then.

Back home, we sat in companionable silence as he sketched my husband. In a few swift strokes he caught the angle of the head, the details of the side table next my husband's chair, and more. I read a book in between watching him raise his head to glance at my husband and bend back to his sketch. Then he showed me the sketch. He'd sketched me too, and gave me wrinkles I didn't have. I said I'd get him for that.

As I hugged him in farewell, he pointed out that one hug is an anagram of enough. I laughed. He added with a wicked smile that once is not enough, though. Vive les toyboys!

Cheers!

When women make advances

2007-07-13T16:25:00.000+05:30

"I invite and you act high and mighty?" I said. He spluttered in indignation. "That's unfair. I don't know what it is about, the meaning, the words…" "Honey, that is what the first line means." I explained patiently.

We were listening to pilachina biguvaTaraa from Malleeswari.

Released in 1951, Malleeswari is a masterpiece by BN Reddi, a lovely film, with great music by S Rajeswara Rao. The songs were written by Devulapalli Krishna Sastry, his first venture into film lyrics, and the combination of Rajeswara Rao and Krishna Sastry produced some gems of songs.

For sheer evocative poetry in film songs, there is no better example than manasuna mallela maalaloogenE. Based on Yaman-Kalyan, the tune is haunting, and the lyric poignant. The song starts with the anupallavi, sung once only, and meanders from image to image; joy of reunion, relived pangs of separation to joy of reunion again; it speaks of sad loneliness in waiting, ending with a fervent plea to be never separated again.

My favourite line in the song is

gaDiya yEni ika viDichi pOkumaa, egasina hRdayamu pagulaneekumaa.
Lest the heart that leapt (in joy) break, don't leave me now, not for a moment.

Though I admired her many-faceted talent, I am not a fan of P Bhanumathi's voice. But in manasuna mallela she achieved a dreamy perfection, and the song always makes me cry.

There are other lovely songs in Malleeswari, of course, but I rather like pilachina biguvaTaraa. It is a perfect javali and a lovely conventional composition. A javali is a lightweight composition, brisker in tempo than the slow paced padam. The theme is romance, ragas and talams chosen are uncomplicated, and the lyric is never high poetry or in classical language.

The reason I like the song is somewhat complicated, though. Javali entered South Indian music through the influence of the Bahmani Sultanate, opine some scholars. Its origins were in ghazals says Aripirala Satyanarayana Murthy, in his Sangita Sabdartha Chandrika.

Now Malleeswari is set in the early sixteenth century, in the Vijayanagar Empire, during Krishnadevaraya's reign. In the film, the king watches Malli dance while travelling incognito. It is delicious to think then, that this javali might well have been the first ever performed, even if it is just a story, not based on any historical fact.

More, Krishna Sastry uses cheluvalu taamE valachi vachchina with great aptness and sense of humour. It is doffing a hat at the father of Telugu poetry, Allasani Peddana, who first said it in his Manucharitram, where Varoodhini laments:

వనిత దనంత దా వలచి వచ్చిన జుల్కన కాదె యేరికిన్?
A woman making advances is held in disdain by everybody.

Peddana was one of the leading lights at Krishnadevaraya's court, one of the ashta diggajas, the eight court poets. If you imagine that the court poet travelling with the king is Peddana, you can also imagine that this javali was where he got the idea! Time travel and impossibilities all achieved, yeah. Krishna Sastry, Peddana, same difference.

If you watch the song, you can see that though the lyric maybe of a scorned woman's accusation, Malli sings it to her sweetheart, entertaining him as they wait out a thunderstorm in a cave. Bhanumathi as Malli dances in gay abandon, laughingly taunting Nagaraju, played by NT Rama Rao. The insouciance of her dance is a joy to watch.

Here is my rendition of the lyric for non-Telugu readers:

పిలచిన బిగువటరా? ఔరౌర!
చెలువలు తామే వలచి వచ్చిన
భళిరా రాజా
pilachina biguvaTaraa? Auraura!
cheluvalu taamE valachi vachchina
bhaLiraa raajaa

I invite you, and you act all haughty?
Oh, if women make advances.
Very good, my lord

ఈ నయగారము యీ వయ్యారము
ఈ నవయవ్వనమాన నిను నే
పిలచిన బిగువటరా?
ee nayagaaramu ee vayyaaramu
ee navayavvanamaana ninu nE
pilachina biguvaTaraa?

This soft beauty, this sweet grace
Of fresh youth to partake and savour
I invite you, and you profess disdain?

గాలుల తేలెను గాఢపు మమతలు
నీలపు మబ్బుల నీడలు కదిలెను
అందెల రవళుల సందడి మరిమరి
అందగాడ యిటు తొందరసేయగ
పిలచిన బిగువటరా? ఔరౌర!
gaalula tElenu gaaDhapu mamatalu
neelapu mabbula neeDalu kadilenu
andela ravaLula sandaDi marimari
andagaaDa yiTu tondara sEyaga
pilachina biguvaTaraa? auraura!

Intense affections float on breezes
Shadows of dark clouds do stir
Clamouring chimes of anklets urge haste,
Handsome one, but you scorn me?
Oh, if women make advances.

He didn't think much of the song. "Pilu," he said dismissively.
"Um, Karnataka Kapi, or variations on the theme of." I said.
"Same difference, a rose by any other name," he snorted.
"We call it Hindustani coffee, though." I giggled.

Cheers!

I accuse

2007-07-09T13:35:00.000+05:30

They held me, like they beheld his chariot,
In awe.
My brother charioteers did, until now.

If in the blood and gore
And slippery mess of battleground
The wheels suddenly did touch the earth,
Who would notice?

Not the cheering army of the five brothers;
Not the thunderstruck troops of the Kauravas.
Not Drona who was grieving,
Renouncing and dying;
Not the ungallant brother-in-law of my lord
Who was only fulfilling his destiny.

Not his brothers who in battle-lust were immersed;
Not the beloved Madhyama,
Bhima, whose deed my lord attested as truth,
He was grieving for his son;
Not Arjuna, following your divine lead
And chasing the self-accursed ones,
He was grieving for his son too;
Not Nakula, the graceful one;
Not Sahadeva, the wise.

When the chariot stopped floating
Serenely superior
And landed abruptly,
Krishna, what must my lord have felt?
A lie however couched,
Asvatthama hatah; kunjarah.

Did you have to bring even my lord
Down to a mere mortal, Krishna?
Did you have to prove that men are weak,
A right lever can move worlds,
Make a truthful man a liar?

Not a born enemy my lord had
Until you turned Asvatthama
A dark angel of destruction with this lie.
Not a fault my lord had.
One lie and the next will come easier,
The third will trip off the tongue.

My lord's chariot became ordinary, Krishna.
There must be a better way to serve Dharma.

Boys will be boys

2007-07-06T18:20:00.000+05:30

I have got boys on my brain. It's not what you think, so you can stop sniggering. I have come across a crossword to blog about after a longish while, that's all.

Look, if you are going to sigh, there she goes harping on crosswords again, you are welcome to skip this post, but don't blame me if you miss the juicy bit at the end. And the clues were brilliant, so I am doing you a favour.

Themes in crosswords can be a bother if you have to figure out the theme first. But sometimes the theme is clear, as in today's Araucaria offering. Every single across clue, and there were fourteen of them, started with the word boy.

There were some gems in the down clues too. The pleasure of arriving at an answer by using cruciverbal logic, and finding you are right when you check it, is something all crossword enthusiasts know. My day was made when I solved this:

Turn to preserve car body in African kibbutz (6)
The solution is ujamaa. U as in U-turn, jam for preserve, and AA for car body.

As I said before, themes can be daunting or entertaining. Today's theme was entertaining. The boys were all wonderful.

Boy and girl formerly out of love (8)
Clarence. Clare and once without o.

Boy in island embraced by grandma (6)
Ninian. Nan around in and i.

Boy possessed by time? (4)
Nick. Time here is a spell in jail.

Boys with 6 carat gold said: "Scarper" (6,4)
Victor Hugo. The numeral 6 is misleading, because you wonder if it is linked to clue number 6. VI, CT, or, and you go.

Boy debt collector goes to prison (6)
Duncan. One of the meanings of dun is to persistently demand payment. Can is one of the many slang terms for prison, others being jug, pen, brig, nick, quod, stir, clink, chokey, cooler, slammer and rather strangely, glasshouse.

Boy from centre turning East (7)
Terence. An anagram of centre and e.

Boy to walk with bird (7)
Stephen. This is so simple.

Boy facing his first few balls? (6)
Justin. Brilliant, right?

Boys injure philosopher with stone, missing 10 (4,6)
Mark Antony. This is a lovely break up. Mar, Kant, onyx without x. 10 is again a little misleading.

Boy with change (6)
Walter. Simple.

Boy with one final song (8)
Alastair. A last air, heh

So I have boys on my brain. Also because my favourite toy boy called to set up a lunch date. As for the title of the post, much as I dislike tautology, the only other title I could come up with was ― boy, oh boy!

Cheers!

The Dear John Letter

2007-07-04T20:26:00.000+05:30

A Dear John letter is the hardest thing to write, if you are a fair-minded person.

I want to avoid accusations while accusations are all that are swirling in my mind. I justify my decision when I just want out. I try to be reasonable when I want to rage. I say I bear no animosity when I bear grievances. I say I want to remain friends even as I feel most unfriendly. It is a messy thing, is writing a Dear John letter.

A baby, a toddler has absolute trust in and totally worships parents. But that is dependence, need and not knowing better. The equation changes when it comes to adult relationships. The worship and trust, the regard and respect all change then.

This is because love isn't a simple emotion or need. Hunger and thirst are simple needs. The need to be wanted appreciated cherished or prized is complex. In all relationships between sexes, there is an element of transaction.

Lust is simple. Love is conditional. Always. Lust is true need. Love is accretion of sentiment and remembered affection and gratitude around that.

A pure instant of overwhelming undemanding affection can happen, but it is not a sustainable emotion. A person can't be continuously grateful or in orgasm. The affection or love mutates, changes its aspects through the length of a relationship.

There is always one person in a couple that cares more. There is one that always gives ground, accepts limits and compromises.

You made the overtures. You started this. And it has been on your terms. You chose how much of yourself you would reveal to me, how much of yourself you'd give to me, not knowing or caring that that very choice reveals more to me. You made demands that I acceded to when newly in lust. What crumbs I glean are mine. What you demand and take, yours.

It's your view, your needs, your decision, all the way, always. Like it or lump it. Take it or leave it. My way or the highway.

You chose to befriend me, beguile me and bemuse me. Yes, I was besotted. I gave way, went with the flow, and made no demands. Love on your terms is hard to sustain, though.

You chose terms and conditions. Now I choose too. I choose to leave.

Goodbye.

The mystery of the missing spam

2007-07-02T17:17:00.000+05:30

Google is a part of our lives now. We Google; therefore we are.

I find it is simpler these days to Google something than raid my shelves, whether it's a quote I am looking for or a definition; it involves no heavy lifting after all. Calamity Jane or Cassandra, Modesty Blaise or Helen of Troy, Google can lead me to astonishing places, as I found out searching for the Banana Boat Song.

But it works the other way too; people searching for things and finding me. It is amazing what people look for and what Google says Larking is the answer for. My site tracker just told me that I am Google's answer for the definition of secret admirer.

I also seem to be the answer if they want to know the meaning of Neha, Lalitha, and all about Lalitha Sahasra Naamam. Google suggests my blog for people looking for the low-down about Sugriva having sex with Tara, sex stories in Telugu online and Namitha's waistline and suchlike too.

Run and fell seams and sewing sari falls or constructing diagrams for cutting salwars all will be explained at my blog, says Google to hapless searchers. Google also says I am the repository of sensual / sensuous poetry, sarasamaina kathalu and when women mean yes when they are saying no. Slow songs and lessons for playing Anandabhairavi geetam? Larking will provide.

Sadly, I have an idea that all these searchers never venture more than a page if that and never return either. I shouldn't complain, really.

But it is nice though that Google recommends me to people looking for cryptic crossword solutions, help with particular clues or Araucaria's latest. I was touched that someone looking to solve nine letter clues for birds was directed to my blog yesterday, in less than six hours after the puzzle was out. I have solved it, of course, but I am not going to talk about it until the solution is out, it is a prize puzzle, after all.

Gmail though, is baffling.

There was a time when I used to clear my Inbox obsessively, delete junk mail and sort all mail into folders. When storage was a measly 2MB and important mails had to be saved on my hard disk, I used to have an Inbox that was clear and empty as soon as I dealt with the mail.

Then spam filters and dedicated folders for bulk mail happened, Gmail with its huge storage happened, and things became easier. Inbox could stay clear or not. I could delete spam and empty trash at leisure and less often; say once in three or four days. I found that leaving mail unsorted and sitting in my Inbox didn't nag at me all that much.

Recently a whim seized me. I know it is irrational and silly, but I wanted to see the number 111 against a folder. Now apart from my mailing lists and groups, I don't get much mail. Since there is no hope of that number against my Inbox, I decided that I'd let spam accumulate.

It took some doing. I'd trained myself to be meticulous in deleting spam and emptying trash, and to stop doing it was hard going. It used to bother me to see so much spam, but the desire to see 111 against the folder kept me from dealing with it and deleting the stuff.

Yesterday, the number stood at 109. So it was with some anticipation that I logged on today. I wouldn't say I was rubbing my hands with glee and chuckling, but I was definitely looking forward to seeing 111 against the spam folder.

The number showing was 99.

What happened to the rest? What did Gmail do with it? I didn't delete any, so where did it go? Did I acquire some kindly spam-subtracting virus? The mind boggles.

Cheers!

En passant

2007-06-28T21:06:00.000+05:30

Missus Em is sulking. She is in a snit. Her blog is accused of being incomprehensible. So she is going to write an erudite post so full of scholarship that it will boggle minds and drop jaws at the breadth of her knowledge. You have been warned.

Laurence Olivier could 'value cornier lie', but Alec Guinness had 'genuine class'.

George Bush, 'he bugs Gore', they say, they do.
George W Bush, 'he grew bogus' they say too.
Yes, President George 'Dubya' Bush is
'Ego upset by pride and hubris'.
But Tony Blair is 'only a Brit'
Even for Americans 'tis only a 'tiny labor' to discover it.

Paris Hilton is 'an Irish plot' and Victoria Beckham is an 'abhor cake victim'.

But Missus Em will have nothing to do with these film types, these political types and society types. She prefers to contemplate loftier ideas.

Ludwig van Beethoven was a 'Vienna vet who bugled' whereas Wilhelm Richard Wagner will 'cling harder while warm'. Did Sergei Rachmaninov 'ever sing a harmonic' as a 'sovereign chairman' or Maurice Ravel have a 'Valium career'?

Romeo and Juliet were 'la mort d'une joie' but Julius Caesar was a victim of 'casual juries'. William Shakespeare might have modestly said, 'I am a weakish speller', but 'we all make his praise'.

Satanic Verses was thought to be in 'Satan's service' and saw 'vast increases' in hatred for him and Salman Rushdie had to 'run amid hassle' because they thought he said 'read, shun Islam'.

A 'trap of hoping soon' is what readers will get caught in if they expect Missus Em to lark now; because 'apropos of nothing' is her new motto. Missus Em won't write about a topic any more, she won't. Missus Em refuses to be mollified. A 'problem in Chinese' it may be, but incomprehensible she will remain.

En passant and in 'an aptness' too, here is a link to a truly mind-boggling news item. Missus Em wishes she had thought of it when she still had a dog. Missus Em recommends that you read it and laugh.

Cheers!

The lament of the mistress

2007-06-25T18:00:00.000+05:30

Writing poems is fun. It is an esoteric kind of fun, I admit, but that doesn't detract the fun quotient a bit. Reading poems is fun too. I get to argue, and one thing leads to another.

I am not easily provoked; I will have you know. I can't help having opinions and stated them to a neutral listener. But he turned out not to be neutral. He said I nit-pick, fuss and wax pedantic. I suppose I do, but never without reason, so I felt aggrieved.

"You quibble too much, Lali."
"Nothing of the sort," I said, primly. "My points are valid, honey."
"You never wrote metered poems…"
"Scuse me? I did too, I'll have you know."
"Let me finish what I am saying, willya?"
"Yessir. You have the floor, sir, and I am the doormat." He sighed.
"Limericks don't count. You never wrote a sonnet or a whatchamacallit, did you?"
"Um."
"You can't criticise if you haven't done some work in the same field, after all."
"Um."
"All right. You have the floor now."
"Is that official? Are you the doormat now?"

He only said that to get my goat, I knew. Of course, one can criticise without expertise; people do it all the time. You don't have to be a cook to say a dish is over-salted. If the lord and master says write a poem before you quibble at one, lady of the house obliges. So I gave him an impromptu tercet.

"You are still here but I miss you, when will we meet next, I fret; to banish the doubts I kiss you."

"Hmm. Tell me more about it. I am languishing unkissed here, by the way." I smiled.

"My cheeks wet as if with dew, small trysts are all I can get; you are still here but I miss you," I improvised. "You are leading up to something, I can see. "

"Stolen kisses and chances so few: you wonder at my cheeks so wet? To banish the doubts I kiss you," I continued. "But you haven't," he complained. I laughed.

"Stolen kisses, eh? The plot thickens," he said. "You bet. Shall I go on?" "You might as well."

"Giddy days when our love was new, madness in recall, hard to forget." I said. "You flatter me Lali," he sighed. "You are still here but I miss you." I concluded the tercet.

"Be that as it may, I can't see how the fourth tercet develops." "The fifth, honey. I can count that high, you know?" "Yeah, rub it in, I lost count. So let's have the next bit."

"There's bliss now, there'll be grief anew; passion owes deceit a debt; to banish the doubts I kiss you," I said.

"Interesting. So the quatrain is more or less set." "That's what you think." I grinned wickedly.

"You aren't mine, I can't have you; sometimes I wish we never met." I stated, and he winced. I finished the quatrain. "You are still here but I miss you; to banish the doubts I kiss you. The lament of the mistress in a villanelle, so there."

"Tell me Lali, are you contemplating an affair?" I burst out laughing.

Cheers!

Author, author

2007-06-23T18:42:00.000+05:30

In his preface to The Classical Groups: Their invariants and representations, Hermann Weyl said:

... the gods have imposed upon my writing the yoke of a foreign language that was not sung at my cradle…Nobody is more aware than myself of the attendant loss in vigor, ease and lucidity of expression.

Chandru tagged me to write about Indian writers I have read. What can you say anew about a topic you have already held forth several times on? If it is about books, plenty, as it happens.

Most urban Indians are lucky in that they grow up learning more than one language. We all have our mother tongues, and we all learn English. We learn other regional languages too, at least enough to get by with. For myself, I speak Telugu and English fluently, Tamil passably well and Hindi and Bengali atrociously. I can follow, or make sense of all south Indian languages even if I miss nuances.

Most of us read literature in more than one language too. We might start off reading children's literature in our mother tongue, and get an introduction to English literature in school. If we are inclined towards it, reading becomes more than just a hobby, it becomes a passion.

I have written earlier about my love affair with reading, about Telugu literature that made lasting impact on me, and my views on contemporary Telugu literary scene. But I haven't waxed eloquent on something Telugu literature has a rich tradition of: translation.

The first major work in Telugu, written about 1050 AD, Mahabharatam was a translation commissioned by king Raja Raja Narendra. Please thank me for refraining from chapter and verse and worse of literary history lessons, here. I will only say that since then, Telugu poets wrote on themes borrowed from Sanskrit classics or Puranas. They'd take an episode and develop it, and it wasn't until 1550 AD that the first original work, KaLaapoorNodayamu was written by Pingali Sooranna.

However passionate one is about reading, one can't hope to read all the great literature ever written in regional languages, there is just no way one can learn or acquire proficiency enough to appreciate literature in so many languages. This propensity to translate from other languages that Telugu writers have was a blessing for me, then. I read most of the great Indian authors in Telugu.

I read Kipling's Jungle Book first in Chandamama (don't say Kipling isn't an Indian author, I think he is). It was in that magazine too, that I read Bankim Chandra's Durgesa Nandini. Translations let me read his Kapala Kundala, and Sarat Chandra's novels and more.

I read K. Jaggaiah's translation of Tagore's Gitanjali long before I heard the more beautiful Rabindra Sangeet. I read Premchand in translation. I read Ghalib and Omar Khayyam in translation, too. I read Kannada writers, mostly Triveni, in Telugu. I read Sanskrit plays and classics in translated versions. I even read Jules Verne in Telugu before I read the English versions.

I had a buddy in college who read Tamil poetry out for me and explained nuances when I missed them. I can say that I heard, rather than read, Kalingattu Parani, Silappadigaaram and Manimekalai.

Later, my husband introduced me to Michael Madhusudan Dutt, Qazi Nazrul Islam and other Bengali poets, reciting from memory and reading to me. He introduced me to Abol Tabol, that wonderful book of nonsense by Sukumar Ray, too.

When we have so many languages, it is a blessing that there are translators. I am indebted to them for introducing me to regional writers I'd never have read otherwise. But there are Indian writers too, who write in English. There weren't that many when I was young, and the regular names have all been referred to by other bloggers who have been tagged, so I will give RK Narayan and Ruskin Bond just a nod in passing.

Of the famous names, I'd like to mention Salman Rushdie specially. My paediatrician, who had interesting ways of dealing with over-wrought young mothers, introduced me to Rushdie and Midnight's Children. It was the third or fourth visit in a week that I'd made to his chambers with my baby son, so he rooted in his shelves, brought out a book and said, "Read this and relax. Forget your son for a while." It worked, too.

I loved Vikram Seth's Golden Gate, which is a marvellous book. I loved his Beastly Tales, too.

There is one author who sums up Indian writing in English for me, though. Nirad Babu. That man wrote brilliant prose, I tell you.

But there are too many Indian writers who write in English nowadays. It is not humanly possible to keep up with the names, let alone read them all. Like I always sigh when confronted with bookshelves and choices choices, choices galore, too many books too little time, alas.

Cheers!

Not a bad apple, considering it's an orange

2007-06-18T11:12:00.000+05:30

Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:
It was the nightingale, not the lark,
That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree:
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

Romeo and Juliet, Act III Scene V

Partings are bittersweet. There is sadness, there is wrenching. There is anticipation of the next meeting and waiting for it. In thinking about the inevitable parting do we already miss the other while still in their company?

Noble metal adjured morning song (6), I said to myself, as I read the poem. Aubade is easy to construct a clue for, but not so villanelle. Level in all is an anagram of villanelle, I can tell you though.

Though the most well-known or most mentioned aubade is that embedded in Romeo and Juliet, John Donne's The Sun Rising is much cited, too. By definition, an aubade is a song or poem about lovers parting at dawn.

Donne's aubade is a grumble addressed to the sun. Philip Larkin wrote an aubade to life. But then, he was morbid. Aubades aren't very popular, I think. And villanelles would have remained an obscure verse form if it weren't for a few famous ones.

To be rigidly conventional, the villanelle should be seven syllables a line, using two rhymes distributed in five tercets and a quatrain. The rhyme scheme is aba for the tercets and abaa for the quatrain. An additional convention has the first line repeated in the sixth, twelfth and eighteenth, and the third line repeated in ninth, fifteenth and nineteenth.

But this was not always followed, in the beginning. Theoretically, one can write any number of tercets and round it off with a quatrain of abaa scheme and it will still be a villanelle; but the convention now is five tercets and a quatrain. The exact repetition of the first and third lines isn't always followed rigidly either, but that is a pity rather than poetic license, if you ask me.

Villanelles originated in Italy, and meant rustic songs at first. The term was used in France to designate a short poem of popular character favoured by poets in the late 16th century. These used to be unrestricted in form. It is said the current rigorous and monotonous pattern was set from a hugely popular poem by Jean Passerat. Here is an interesting essay and a translation. A sample.

J'ay perdu ma Tourterelle:
Eft-ce point celle que i'oy?
Ie veus aller aprés elle.

I have lost my turtledove:
Isn't that her gentle coo?
I will go and find my love.

The most famous villanelle, Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, by Dylan Thomas, illustrates the verse form well, as Thomas adhered to the meter mostly and the convention of repeating the first and third lines exactly. Elizabeth Bishop, in her One Art, ignored that convention and repeated the third line rhyme alone throughout the poem, and her poem suffers because of that.

Most poets ignore the seven-syllable rule, though. A truly neurotic writer would adhere to all the rules, perhaps, but poets always break rules; and if they know what they are doing the results are spectacular.

On the other hand, William Ernest Henley defines the rules of a villanelle in a delightful villanelle, it is a perfect example and charming to boot.

A dainty thing's the Villanelle,
Sly, musical, a jewel in rhyme,
It serves its purpose passing well.

A double-clappered silver bell
That must be made to clink in chime,
A dainty thing's the Villanelle;

And if you wish to flute a spell,
Or ask a meeting 'neath the lime,
It serves its purpose passing well.

You must not ask of it the swell
Of organs grandiose and sublime--
A dainty thing's the Villanelle;

And, filled with sweetness, as a shell
Is filled with sound, and launched in time,
It serves its purpose passing well.

Still fair to see and good to smell
As in the quaintness of its prime,
A dainty thing's the Villanelle,
It serves its purpose passing well.

Here is a parody of Do not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, and it illustrates what Henley stated, that a villanelle is best suited for lighthearted ideas. While Dylan Thomas could sustain brooding intensity and powerful imagery, and build up to the climax to end with the brilliant last two lines,

"Do not go gentle into that good night,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

Bishop's poem stuttered because she chose to repeat the third line rhyme alone. A villanelle wasn't the right form for her theme anyhow. It wasn't, for Dylan Thomas' idea either, but he could carry it off brilliantly.

When a favourite blogger finally deigns to post it is time for rejoicing. But when you wait six months for a post, you get to quibble. It is a lovely poem. He calls it an aubade and addresses it to life, but it is neither an aubade nor a proper villanelle, I tell you.

Cheers!

Dear Basant Dhawan,

2007-06-16T14:55:00.000+05:30

I am sure you are a nice man. I have just read a letter you signed.

You are grateful on your company's behalf, you said, for my patronage. But when you append your name to even form-letters, you ought to make sure that text matches fact, you know, really.

It will save me money, for one thing-- from having to invest in dentures because I gnash my teeth, and hey, it will save the earth too and slow global warming if I didn't feel it was necessary that I write back and tell you a few things. Paperwork saved is the huge global warming mountain nibbled at, after all. Let's save a few rain forests, shall we?

You mentioned I've been using your services for a long time; is a little over eight months a long time? Really, truly? Do I have to change my time reckoning and rethink how long is long?

You invited me to spread the joy of WorldSpace Radio around by telling my friends about it. You included an easily filled form for names and addresses, and you informed me that for any friend who signs up on my recommendation, I will get one 3D sound headphones and three recommendations would mean an automatic entry to a lucky draw where I may win a Bose Home Entertainment System worth Rs 61,760! What happens if a dozen friends sign up? How many headphones will I get? Will my name be entered thrice in the lucky draw? Do I get that Bose Home Entertainment System free? Or will you decide I am ineligible?

Why do you think I will give you names of my friends and means of how to contact them just because you sent me a letter? Phone numbers will do if I can't furnish complete addresses, you say? That is rich.

However.

Your kind letter telling me all this, that there was fun to be had, prizes to be won, such giddy stuff and more was addressed to Lalita Mukhergy.

I wish I knew her. She seems to get letters and offers and seems to have an active social life, which I rather envy. I hope you find the real Lalita Mukhergy and motivate her enough to sell subscriptions on your behalf, I really do. Here is wishing you best of luck.

May I ask a small question, though? How would you like it, Basant Dhawan, if I addressed you as Vasanth Divan or Vasant Dhavan or Boshont Dhabon, or Vashant Devan, or Vaasanth Deewan? Do tell.

Nevertheless, let me congratulate you on your efficient helpline. You have cheerful, helpful, articulate and competent staff manning your lines. They always sort out my problems and guide me step by step to solve whatever trouble I report.

And now about the entry for the lucky draw and the Bose Home Entertainment System? Can I consider myself a winner?

Cheers!

Outrageous bombast with a banner (8)

2007-06-13T19:04:00.000+05:30

Flagrant, of course.

One reason I love crosswords is that I learn new things, and find out things I'd never have known otherwise. Did you know that France, Norway, UK and USA all have red white and blue flags? I didn't know about Norway, till today.

One of my favourite compilers at Guardian crosswords, Brendan almost always has a theme to his crosswords. Today it was flags. The first across clue set the tone.

9) Right places passed over in trip - one flies over Paris for example (9) tricolour
Tour around r and loci written backward.

10) Has important role as crewman in vessel (5) stars
12) Bunk in ship as indication of rank (7) stripes

13) Celebrity, when old, 10 and 12 (5) glory
The Stars and Stripes is also called Old Glory.

25) Organised workers given raise that symbolises national merger (5,4) Union Jack
16) Standard description for 9, 25, 10 and 12 (3,5,3,4) red white and blue

Then there were these gems:

20,17) Prohibitionist's main policy that's prominently printed in paper (6,8) banner headline
This is lovely, prohibitionist as banner.

23) Friend and worker following a method of signalling (7) pennant
Penn and ant, and method of signalling. Charming.

22) Stone sink (4) flag
Interesting.

Which led me to solve 3) State of 16 22, emphatically not without monarch (6) Norway
No way around r, and that is how I discovered that the flag of Norway is a tricolour and is red white and blue.

And, by the way, it is official now. Neologisms appear all the time, and people use them. OED adds new words and that makes them accepted usage. But for cruciverbalists, a word appearing in a crossword does that. Emails and spam and references to the Internet have been coming up in crosswords for quite sometime now. Google as verb has been around for a while but Shed, in yesterday's Guardian Crossword made it official for us.

Search force in Humberside port (6) Google

Cheers!

Potato frying 101

2007-06-10T10:50:00.000+05:30

"… We have, reluctantly, translated them into metric terms because Nanny Ogg used throughout the very specialized unit of measure known as the 'some' (as in 'Take some flour and some sugar').

This required some, hah, experiment, because the 'some' is a unit of some, you see, complexity. Some flour is almost certainly more than some salt, but there appears to be no such thing as half of some, although there was the occasional mention of a 'bit' as in 'a bit of pepper'.

Instinctively, one feels that a bit of flour is more than some pepper but probably less than a bit of butter, and that a wodge of bread is probably about a handful, but we have found no reliable way of measuring a gnat's.

….We have not been able to come up with a reliable length of time equivalent to a 'while', which is an exponential measurement - one editor considered on empirical evidence that a 'while' in cookery was about 35 minutes, but we found several usages elsewhere of 'quite a while' extending up to ten years, which is a bit long for batter to stand."

A note from the editors of that wonderful tome, Nanny Ogg's Cookbook, Terry Pratchett, Stephen Briggs.

My father believed in research and backing any statement he made with proof. If you are a literary historian making pronouncements on deciphered inscriptions it makes sense to be cautious; even otherwise, it is good policy.

Conditioned by my father, I am always impressed and a bit awed by cookery blogs. How can they say so confidently 250 grams of this, 10 grams of that and so on? They give weights and measures and cooking times as though it is all set in stone. Those blogs intimidate me. I picture the bloggers weighing ingredients on scales until the weight is exactly right (do they chop veg to match stated weight?), doling out spices by teaspoonfuls or hunting for the quarter teaspoon measure which must have emigrated or sought refugee status elsewhere, like mine has.

Rimi asks for my pasta recipe, Dipali suggests I write about our majjiga pulusu/moar kuzhambu/kadhi debate. I wouldn't know where to begin, really.

I cook by approximation and guesstimates and instinct. I am not as much a free cook as my sister is, who dips into the salt and sprinkles it by hand, trusting her judgment and experience, but I still cook without measures, mostly.

We all have cups or bowls we measure rice and lentils with for daily cooking, of course, and we use spoons to add spices to the dishes. But most of us won't be able to state exact amounts of anything used, I am sure.

Take potatoes, for instance. When you cook for two people as a regular thing, you learn to judge quantities. I cook two or three potatoes, depending on size. It also depends on whether I am cooking for two meals or one, on other accompaniments. If my son is at home, I cook thrice the amounts, as he likes my stir-fried potatoes and demolishes them faster than I can cook.

So if I want to give you a recipe, how can I say 200 grams or a kilo? I can stir fry one potato or a dozen, the technique is the same, but I couldn't tell you how I go about it if I had to give weights. Four cups of pasta, I can say, but it might be three onions if large or seven or eight if small. It all depends, you see?

But my son rather likes my stir-fried potatoes. Like most of my daily cooking, it is a simple recipe. There is no secret ingredient, other than the ease that comes with making a dish countless number of times. These potatoes go best with rasam and rice or curd rice.

I suppose there is a secret. It is to dice the potatoes evenly. Whether it is a couple of them or a couple of dozen of them, they will cook better if they are evenly shaped and sized. I can tell you how I go about dicing the potatoes in great detail, actually.

I use chandramukhi potatoes that are popular in Calcutta. These cook fast and tend to be rather moist, but they are ideal for my stir-fried recipe. I wouldn't know how other varieties will turn out, or how long they will take to cook.

I pare potatoes and slice them, one centimeter thick (yes, I measured that), and then cube the slices a centimeter thick. Depending on my mood, the season, or the phases of the moon, I might make the thickness half a centimeter, too. If I was insanely rich or ran a restaurant, I suppose I'd discard the edges as they will be uneven, but I am not that much of a fanatic about symmetry (Hercule Poirot, please forgive me).

Once the potatoes are diced, I rinse them to remove excess flouriness, and pat them dry. Then I heat the frying pan. I use a nonstick frying pan. I suppose these can be cooked in a standard cast-iron pan, but I prefer the nonstick pan as it takes very little oil.

I add the potatoes to the heated oil, shake them about so they get coated evenly with the oil, make sure they are well spread, and cover the pan. In the three or four minutes it takes them to get crisp and golden edges, I mix my spices together. This is better than adding them to the potatoes one by one.

Other than salt, I add powdered cumin and coriander mainly. Dried mango powder and chilli powder too, but that is a gnat's. I can't give you measurements. For three medium sized potatoes, I suppose I add a tad less than a spoon each of jeera and dhania powder, and a pinch of amchoor and a very judicious spattering of chilli powder. Again, this depends on my mood; some days I might go heavy on the coriander, on others it might be the cumin that dominates.

I must caution you about one thing, though. My spices are ground at home. I dry roast the cumin and coriander seeds and grind small amounts regularly to keep the flavours fresh. I am not sure how the potatoes will turn out if you use ready bought spices. Even the dried mango I buy whole strips and grind at home. The chilli powder is a mix of two kinds, Kashmiri for the colour and regular for the punch. Those I do buy, from a shop that specializes in fresh ground spices.

So, after the potatoes develop a crisp coating I sprinkle the spices, all thoroughly mixed, make sure that it is all evenly spread, lower the flame, and put the lid on again. As they get crisp and done, I shake the pan once in a while.

The next thing to do is to cook the rest of the meal, and serve it. Simple, like I said.

Recent conversation at Chez Em:

"Honey, are you feeling generous?"
"What do you want to buy?"
"Um, you know those kitchen scales that come with digital readouts? I think I'd like one."
"Why?"
"Well, then I could measure things as I cook them and start a new blog, Lali's Kitchen."
"But you don't measure things anyway. And what's wrong with Larking?"
Sigh.

Cheers!

Famous Grouse, four muses ago

2007-06-07T12:17:00.000+05:30

Groan: An expression of appreciation for the horrible.

There are some things that irk me. Typos and grammatical errors in newspapers have lost their sting these days, I have learned to ignore them to save wear and tear on my teeth, but there are things that still get my goat I tell you.

Why can't tennis players simply win or lose? Why do they have to storm into the next round or crash out of a tournament? Why are teams trounced? What's wrong with simple statements like 'India lose'?

I may be working on a post, or maybe blog-hopping or reading my mail. "Updating your computer is almost complete. You must restart your computer for the updates to take effect. Do you want to restart your computer now? " Asks a message that pops up. I click 'Restart Later'. Less than ten minutes later up pops the same message. Why? Haven't I already stated that I want to do it later?

I send a request that no promotional messages be sent to my phone. It is acknowledged. I still get messages from Airtel, some half a dozen each day, about great tunes to download, about recharge offers only for me, and so on. Why?

There was a song in some film, it was Sharmila Tagore I think, that made me grind my teeth every time I heard it. A schoolmarm singing with her class, how does the wind blow, why do the clouds float, I don't know, you don't know, only God knows. Really? Why was she a teacher then?

There is a beauty parlour off Lansdowne Road I will never venture into. Nor would anybody who thinks about words. What were they thinking when they called themselves Senioreeta? That they were going to turn middle-aged matrons into teenyboppers and hence older women would rush over to them in droves for the experience?

Do you want to see your Add here? Asks an outdoor advertising company on sandwich boards. No thank you, I grind my teeth.

The phone rings and I answer. Who is speaking, says the caller. You called this number so it is up to you to introduce yourself, I fume. Really, is that too much to ask?

While we are on the subject of phones, why don't my friends call me? They know I have a phone, they know the number, so how come it is always me calling them up, not the other way around?

My old phone got bad karma and died. I acquired a new one, some ten days ago. I had no idea of how it'd ring, though. Nobody calls me. It is nice to get calls out of the blue from pals and toy boys. It is nice to receive text messages too. So why don't people call me or message me? Why is the whole world busy when I need to be entertained, amused and pampered? People have no sense of priorities, I say.

I was getting into a regular stew about it, you know, and then the Non Resident Mathematician called. He called to scold, and wonder if I was bedridden. He called to talk to the Resident Mathematician really. Anyway, the phone rang. It took me a while to twig to the fact. (Not my fault, my phone never rings, after all.)

So I got scolded, sidelined and I learned that the default ring tone is awful. I changed it pronto. My phone will sound nice if it ever rings again.

Bah!

Smoke without fire

2007-06-04T16:58:00.000+05:30

The troubles of our proud and angry dust
Are from eternity, and shall not fail.
Bear them we can, and if we can we must.
Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.

A.E. Housman

"Interesting, dear. Your blood is interesting." He murmured as he shuffled the reports and made notations on his own prescription.

I bit back the first response, the first several responses that sprang to my mind, and counted up to ten. Then I counted my blessings, the first one being I was numerate enough to count up to ten. I'd already come to the conclusion that he addressed all his female patients as dear to avoid having to remember names.

As things stood, I'd been suffering for forty days and nights now. The pinched nerve was old news. Less than a week into wearing a cock-up splint and functioning one-handed, I'd developed painfully swollen joints all down my right side. As things stood, this was disaster on the scale of the Great Flood.

I went to my doctor when I found my knee and ankle swollen. He prescribed something, asked for tests. After five days the inflammation spread to wrist, elbow and fingers, too. My doctor suggested I see an orthopaedic specialist. So I went to B2. He declared war on any possible latent infection and started me on a mega-course of antibiotics; and he wanted more tests, too.

(In the last five weeks I went through so many blood tests that I have puncture marks like a junkie, and am in danger of developing anemia through blood loss.)

After ten days I still had the swollen joints and low-grade fever and constant pain that accompanied every movement. And more joints were joining the party. I began to feel that I was a living representation of Indian polity, I tell you. You can't get more morbid than that.

When you go to a doctor and display swollen joints he'll note that you have poly arthritis, prescribe anti-inflammatory painkillers and ask for blood tests to check for RA factor and uric acid. When the tests state that your blood is fine, but the swelling and pain persist, he'll ask you to consult a specialist. B2 suggested I see a rheumatologist.

So I saw one. He seemed a nice man. He apologised for being rude and asking a lady her age. He clucked over my swollen joints, and asked for more tests, a veritable alphabetical soup of tests. While we waited for the results he started me on a course of medicines. These involved an injection. He said that it could have three effects-- it would do nothing; act like a magic bullet— all pain and inflammation gone, never to return; or it could give short-term relief.

I winced as I heard the word intramuscular. You would too, if you had just completed a course of Neurobion administered intramuscularly. My bruises were still in the fading purple and sickly yellow stage. Nevertheless, I followed his prescription. The injection acted like a magic bullet, yes; for all of twenty-four hours.

For the last forty days I have been adrift on the Sea of Pain, with no land in sight. I wouldn't recommend it as a diet plan or wish it on anybody, but being unable to hold a fork or a spoon makes for a great way to lose some weight. Don't snigger and suggest I could have used my fingers. That was worse.

But even as I suffered, life had to go on and it did. Pain or no pain, I had to run a house, I did. We are wired to forget pain as soon as it ceases. So as and when the painkillers kicked in, I tried to get on with life. There was a silver lining and that was my friends. Whether commiserating or cheering me up, calling for updates or listening to me moan, they were there and they kept me sane.

Chenthil wrote me a get well soon poem. He drew my attention to things and kept me diverted from constant pain. Prabhu kept me entertained with He / She previews. Neha sympathised and sent hugs. Being practical, Anantha gave me lessons and introduced me to links and persons. Megha came through magnificently with songs I was searching for, enabling me to write what I thought about them and take my mind off my misery.

Juggling assignments and exams as she was, Rimi found time to listen to me whine and kept my spirits up. Darling by name and nature, Priya came to my rescue in several ways, and made me feel cherished each time she scolded me for overdoing things.

Nilu advanced the theory that chocolate is panacea, and offered to come and administer therapy while we worked out details of our elopement. He wants me to clean out my husband's bank balance before we elope. Now if this sounds mercenary it is because you are petty-minded; I am sure he has a noble reason for that.

Readers and friends who prefer to remain anonymous kept in touch and made me feel special. Thank you, Dipali. It's a pleasure to talk to you, Man With No Name, have I told you lately?

So, there's always a silver lining, you just have to look for it. There are always blessings, if you count them.

So, I bit back the first response. The results of the alphabetical soup of tests were there in their cryptic glory and all the man had to say was they were interesting.

But this was the man who brought, like the dove did to Noah, the first whiff of landfall or deliverance from pain. I didn't want to antagonise him with irony or one-liners. So I said, as mildly as I could manage, "How so?"

All my tests were negative for RA factor but I had all the symptoms, he said. He was treating me for a disease my blood tests said I did not have. It was passing strange, he said. Do I have rheumatoid arthritis or not, I asked straight out. The tests say not, dear, he said. It was clear he thought so, though.

There is no fire, but plenty of smoke, indeed. But Ararat, ahoy!

Cheers!

Choose a pique

2007-06-01T17:58:00.000+05:30

There were a lot of things that have rankled in the last month, and I will tell you all about each and every one of them, never fear (or rather, quake in your shoes), but this was the top of the list over the last ten days. So, I am doing what I always do: writing it out of my system. You have been warned.

Definition: A statement intended to put a word in its place.

A definition is so many things, actually. It is a concise explanation of the meaning of a word or a phrase or a symbol, it is also clarity of outline, an account, distinctiveness, explanation or sharpness. But in crosswords, definition is something else.

In concise crosswords, it is usually straight forward, and a good vocabulary and a quick recall of synonyms will make solving them simple. Loafer (5) is idler. But in a cryptic clue, it could be a type of shoe, or somebody who makes loaves, hence a baker. This is because cryptic clues are presented in a coded form. While a good compiler can be infuriatingly sly, he will always be fair; and however coded the clue, the solution is always reachable.

A good clue will read like a piece of ordinary language, a statement, question or a definition. But good compilers don't waste words, and all the words contribute to arriving at the solution. So when I went about solving Guardian Prize crossword last fortnight, I thought I was losing the battle of wits with Araucaria because I was missing something. But that turned out not to be the case. He compiled a bad clue. All right, a clue I didn't like.

The crossword had some lovely long and involved clues.

6,9 A don with knot twice untied expresses doubt (1,4,4,4,2,5)

The economy of this clue is breathtaking. Expresses doubt is the definition, and the solution you arrive at has to mean that. A don- so, I don. Then, with knot twice untied. An anagram of ' with knot, with knot', and the solution is-- I don't know what to think!

6,8 Whittaker's part (boy, English) to Scottish summit, holding on- hence 14down, 20, 16.

Part of 'Whittaker', son, E, to, knowe with on inside it. The solution is-- it takes one to know one.

And this ties into 14down, 20,16 Advice to Scotland Yard about reporter's knickers (3,1,5,2,5,2,5)

Again, the clue is brief, elegant. Reporter's here is an indication to go by how the word is heard. Here if we read the word as nickers, it falls in to place. Set a thief to catch a thief.

There were other lovely clues. After trust, after writing (9) sincerely

Amin in country concerned with pupil's surroundings (7) iridian

Flower for reporter to dispose of and eat? (9) celandine

Island hospital authorised assistance in crucial blow (8) Hokkaido

But the clue that bothered me even as I solved it, even after the solutions were published and annotations given to see how they were arrived at, was this:

Much more angry having lost part of dress circle at opening of theatre (7)

The solution is Olivier, of course. I solved it, and fumed. I saw the annotation and fumed. Now I write about it and I fume.

Olivier LIVI(d[ress])ER after O— was the annotation. But I disliked this clue. Much more angry is livider. Without d, and o to begin with. I still think it's a bad clue.

Et tu, Araucaria? Sigh!

I believe in positive thinking and silver linings, though. So I am anticipating the weekend's lot of puzzles, and I have the pleasure of the latest Carl Hiaasen and a new Percy Jackson book to look forward to. Not to mention that I will be pampering myself silly at my salon, getting the works. Life isn't too bad then.

Cheers!