The Silence Is Rest

Then:
We lived in a busy lane just a few months ago. Cars, motorcycles, and even buses and trucks used to pass right under our home in a honking hurry to reach their destination. The half-dozen children in the building, whose parents had bought peaceful homes and not anticipated the traffic diversions that Bangalore would collapse without, would scream their lungs out in the stairwell, forced to exhaust their bountiful supply of childhood energy without stepping out the building. In this cacophonous neighborhood pressure cookers would whistle, music wafted in through the window, and the neighborhood alcoholic and his wife would have a screaming match with dogs barking to egg them on.

And now:
The calluses on my feet beat a hollow rhythm as I walk barefoot on the floors of my home. Their sound is deafening. Through the double-glazed, weather-proof windows, not a whisper can pass. When the windows are opened to let it fresh air, one only catches the polite whoosh of cars going swiftly and silently by. Even the construction of the large complex across the road is progressing without much smash-clatter-bang.

They who can be calm in a storm are admirable. I cannot claim membership to their club. For me, my new-found silence is precious. Long days that go by without uttering a word, long naps that end only because I want to wake up, long periods of quiet that let you reflect without having to resist the constant assault of new stimuli…I am addicted to them all.

Some would say the din I’ve left behind is life-affirming: a heady cocktail of sound gushing through the labyrinth of existence. For me, there is too much life in that noise, and too much noise in that life.

Train Fan

What I love most about Europe is the trains. Clean, spacious, fast and comfortable. With huge windows that show you some of the best sights you’re likely to come across in life. Just settle in, put your coffee cup on the little table, and, if you’re feeling cheeky, lay a newspaper on the seat opposite you and put your feet up, and as the train pulls out of your pretty station, get set for a ride like none other.
Don’t look at anything that’s too close to you, or your head will spin! Focus on the distant horizon instead. It’s the best policy for life and for train rides. Take breaks from the view, else you’ll be possessed by a demonic urge to crash through the panes and go walking in that green field or the patch of woods you just passed by. Look at your fellow passengers intermittently: smile at the old ladies and get smiled back at (the sister recommends this highly), assure the two Italian hooligans that they did NOT need to punch their tickets at the station, smile pleadingly at the British girl to dissuade her from spending the next two hours talking on the phone about a party she’s planning.
If you have a long day ahead of or behind you, try a nap. Be prepared for the finger of authority poking your sleepy shoulder and demanding to see your ticket, though. Scores of fake sleepyheads have obviously tried to snooze their way out of buying a ticket, and your snores are falling on deaf and cutely suspicious ears.
The train is also a great place to catch up with work, because your real life partner, the Internet, is not there to distract you. Read a book, complete an assignment, or dream up the emails you need to send out. The next stop is: Workstation!
I just love the trains. Grumpy office-goers complain that the trains always run late (which they actually do, in the mornings), but what do grumpy office-goers know about trains running late? Yaatrigan kripaya dhyaan dein: Hyderabad ko jaaney waali AP Express samay se 12 ghantey deri se ravaana hogi….
I’ve been looking for an adventure, a sanctuary, a bedazzling, shifting panorama, and a long journey. For me, the trains of Europe are running right on time. Goede Reis!

Dutch Gotilla :(

Being in a writing profession and moving temporarily to a non-English-speaking country (at least as far as the job market is concerned) brings with it a dilemma: should I learn a new language and maybe not stay long enough to use it? Even if I study it for two years, there's no way I can be "writing" in it with any level of confidence. If I join day classes and get one of the two jobs in the country that I am qualified for?

So I've just been learning Dutch off the signboards, and having fun with it. Apologies if someone is hurt, but I just have to mix up everything I see!

Today's multilingual atyachar: "I am a flower-arranger lady" in Dutch + Hindi/Urdu + Japanese + Gujarati = "Ik ben ik ikebana ben"

Misc

Yesterday the last long weekend before Christmas came to an end (for the husband of course; my life is the longest weekend in the universe as of now). We spent the cloudy afternoon enjoying the curtailed train services, browsing through a sports goods store for cheap shoes, and finally buying an extra set of bed linen from Ikea.

As we walked back from Ikea with our precious cargo (the store started out as Wonderland for me, and now sucks happiness out of every pore of my large surface area body for some reason), we saw a sea… no… an ocean of humanity spill out towards the ArenA station. Old elderly white-haired couples hand in hand….roughly 34,000 of them, Wikipedia tells me, were exiting the ArenA after a concert. Many of them were aiming for the same train as we were, and after fortifying ourselves with a sandwich and lemonade (how quaint!) we got to the platform.

People “crowded” the platform in three lines parallel to the train tracks, they barely whispered as the train rumbled in, “jostled” in neat queues to get in first, 60-year-olds gallantly gave up their seats to 80-year-olds, and by the time the doors closed, hardly anyone was standing! We tried to entertain the venerable music lovers with a pole dance, of course, but nobody seemed interested.

I hope never to lose the feeling of joyful wonder at how well-behaved people can be. And how lovely Dutch trains are!

P.S. Stopped by at Pathe to pick up tickets for Kung Fu Panda 2 in IMAX 3D for next weekend! My first IMAX! Der aaye, durust aaye!

Superlike!

De Heer Gulati's camera lies on the coffee table at all times, to be put to use at a moment's notice when interesting action is spotted outside the window. He's finally put it all together in a post on his blog, thereby saving me tonnes of trouble. Take a look!

P.S. If he's De Heer, you'd guess I'm De Ranjha? Nope, I'm Mevrow (meefrow) and am called that by burly security guards in pleading voices as I walk into exit doors, carry big shoplifter bags into stores etc....

Talkin' Trash

Our neighbourhood has lovely garbage disposal points within 50 metres of any gate, and ever so often there’s something that’s too big for the bin, like a sofa, that someone just HAS to get rid of and there’s nothing to be done except to leave the sofa next to the bin! Till the garbage crew comes along, passers by are welcome to sit on the sofa and enjoy the view of the bin, or to even carry it home with them if they need it! (Sofa, not bin. You Guys!!!)

When our landlord gallantly came over with a cart to take away all the unwanted stuff from the apartment’s storeroom, he left quite a few nice things, like a beautiful mirror, next to the garbage area. On our post-landlord-inspection victory walk that evening, we saw a rather nice lady pick up the mirror, examine it, and walk away with it. It was heartening to see that the mirror was not going to lie around waiting for the trash lorry, shatter due to the crazy river breeze in the meantime, and hurt someone.

It also made me bold enough to prod about in collections of stuff people leave there. Once someone left a darling green ceramic pot that was crying out to be taken home and have a plant installed in, but the husband looked at me with a look that I don’t fancy being looked at with, and I put the pot back. And did what any sensible woman would do. I went alone the next time. But the pot was gone. Never mind.

Meanwhile, my oh-so-white and proper kitchen had been looking like a mess because of all the oil and spice bottles I want at hand while cooking, and with no way to keep them neatly, I’ve been arranging them the way I have arranged my whole life… in a mess mostly. But a visit to the garbage bin has changed everything! Some kind soul cleared his or her storeroom and threw away a drawer-separator that had obviously been purchased but never used. After a minute’s hesitation, I picked it up and triumphantly brought it home. The husband initially suffered a combined attack of shock and disgust, but was so amazed at what I did with it, that this post is being made on his special request!

P.S.: I think I'll paint it white

P.P.S.: I was warned I’d become a junkie in Amsterdam, and seems like it’s happening.

P.P.P.S.: Of course I cleaned it. You Guys!!!

Bag Bag Decay Boss!

After a day of housework (it DOES consume every single second of your waking life if you let it) I went for a walk last evening. It was like any other one-hour excursion into the city, with one difference. I carried no handbag. Nothing on my shoulder, nothing in my hands. Just the keys, wallet and cellphone in my pockets, and NO BAG. You know how unusual that is for a woman? VERY. How can I be so sure? I came across a good 4-5000 women in that hour…tourists, officegoers, general chill-outers and unemployed women who had had enough of housework for one day, and NOT A SINGLE ONE of them was without a bag of some sort. Some were carrying their houses on their shoulders, which is normal for people landing at Amsterdam Centraal Station, and a couple of them were carrying just a tiny sling bag, but unlike roughly half the men I encountered, no woman was bag-free.

It was a lovely feeling to be able to walk without something pressing down upon your shoulder, threatening to slip off at any moment, or bumping against you with each step you took. Why can’t we do this more often. Unless there’s a porta-loo in that bag, why do women think they need to carry that bag and men don’t? Is the need to carry a water bottle, an umbrella, or a book exclusively feminine? When was the last time you stepped out of the house without a bag, ladies?

It might be a fun experiment. No bag for a week, no matter what. Must try! Water can be bought at a grocery store. Rain can be hidden from under an awning. Faces can be read instead of books. (Baazigar has ruined the poetry of that statement forever, hasn’t it?)

Rewrite From Hell

The darling husband is sentimental about everything he sees or hears these days, which I think is a comical side effect of his brain finally being able to function without the noise and pollution of our erstwhile environs. Me? I just play loud music at home and walk past weed stores an awful lot to maintain my inner balance.

So anyway, here's an extract from a recent poetic post by the husband:

Imagine a cold, overcast day. Now imagine a quaint pub at the corner of a street by a canal. Entering it on a day like this is like entering a new world. You are sitting, chatting with colleagues with a glass of iced tea in your hand. Music plays in the background but faintly – for it doesn’t want to intrude on your conversation. In fact it is so faint that it sounds like a whisper from a world beyond ours. The music changes and your ears catch a vaguely familiar strain. But they can’t quite place it. Besides this is a pub – most of whatever little reached your ears is drowned in conversations around you. That nagging sense of familiarity persists – and the inability to clearly hear the music strengthens it. Then suddenly, by some stroke of good fortune, the conversations at your table and at the table beyond and at the bar stools pause for a fraction of a second – as if everyone was reading from the same page and encountered a full stop. And you hear with unmistakable clarity a voice that you know can only be Paul McCartney softly crooning:

Michelle, my belle.
Sont des mots qui vont très bien ensemble,
Très bien ensemble.

I challenged him that I could better this, and here's my version:

Miserable cold day! Thank God for the cosy pub. English music drowned by chatter and tinkling glasses, as usual. Wait! Don’t I recognize that song? Maybe if I could HEAR it you know! Ah! Paul of the Mc Cartney variety of course! I love you, I love you, I LOVE YOU with increasing urgency, as if waiting in a long bathroom queue. But why is it so quiet all of a sudden? Oh nerve gas! Ouch! Bye! Logging out!

Look at the economy of words! The depth of feeling! The stream of consciousness! I'm wasting my talent I say! :)

And now look at Maamu McCartney putting the song to real good use!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yrRLH-ZGZEs&feature=related

Notes from the first month in Amsterdam

Language:
I slept during My Name is Khan, so I don’t know what the plot is
But thanks to that blasted movie I know all about the epiglottis
Grammar, even English, has been tantalizingly out of my reach
But in the Netherlands I know the epiglottis is THE part of speech

Transport:
My facebook status message has a cute little heart
That says Inky is in a relationship with her OV Chipkaart
It’s the choice that’s so amazing, but it’s the choice that I loathe
Debating between tram and metro, I often miss them both

Food:
I have zout popcorn in one hand, zoet popcorn in the other
It’s all good roughage, I tell my concerned mother
And the only problem with Oude and Jong kaas
Is that they are bleddy going directly to my arse

Paradigm Shift

So I'm all shiny and clean at 4pm, dressed in slimming all-black (note to self, you need black MAGIC to look slim) and walking down the road along the canal humming a Bollywood song to myself. A bike slows down beside me, and the raggedy rider says "Excuse me? single? single? EXCUSE ME? SINGLE?"

My first Dilliwali impulse is to abuse him and shove my shoe into one or more places in his anatomy, but then I remember I am in Amsterdam. I smile and say:

"This is Prinsengracht. Go a bit further up and take a left. You'll be on Singel"

P.S. Dilli or Amsterdam, you will be rammed into by two-wheelers even when you're crossing the road correctly. Some paradigms never shift.

Moving and Stuff

On the night of April 8, we were standing at Indira Gandhi Airport with two-and-a-half bags, and over the preceding three weeks, we had ensured that those bags contained practically all our worldly possessions (56kg in all, to be precise).

Making a fresh start involved not just the mandatory letting go of a rented house, phone number etc. but a practical erasure of our Bangalore footprint! All our furniture. gadgetry and electronics were given/sold away, practically all the books we had collected over the past many years were sold to Blossom or given to friends, the husband's painstakingly collected music CDs, all 500 of them, found new homes, and when we handed the keys of the apartment back to the landlord, it was as empty as the day the husband had moved in.

We’d always taken pride in how little stuff we owned, and how we had been able to emotionally detach ourselves from our possessions. While turning the house inside out, we discovered that we were not quite as virtuous as we thought.

One month later, here we are: in a bigger house(!) with very little stuff and very limited storage space. Here’s hoping we’ll be able to live out our philosophy this time.

Amsterdamned Fools

The early thirties are a defining period in many couples’ lives in India. It’s time to start a family, to buy a home, to get onto the managerial track at work (for one or both partners), and suchlike. It’s too late for the rash decisions of youth, and too early for the follies of a midlife crisis. Although it is the time to enjoy the thrill of definitively coming into adulthood, it is also the time of the birth of fear. The need to hold down that job to pay that EMI, the need to hold on to your senses to be able to be there for your parents on the one hand, and the kids on the other.

And, very rarely, it is the time of sticking your middle finger at the slings, arrows, bouquets and brickbats of outrageous fortune, chucking your secure jobs, hugging your forever-to-be-grandchildless parents, selling/giving away/throwing out all your worldly posessions, packing your life into 23-kilo suitcases, and moving to a new country where only one of you has a job (with the same designation with which he started 11 years ago!)

In four days, we celebrate one month of moving to Amsterdam, for better or for worse (for good? there's no way to know.)

I’ve learnt some disturbing things about myself along the way, and the silence of the last few months has not been due to the absence of things to say, but because I’ve had too much to process.

The husband has been posting in his Zen way on his blog, so you can check out how we’ve been passing our days if you’d like. For the uncensored craziness, watch this space.

Phbbbt!

I recently traveled to Amsterdam, where much fun was had, although not the kind you’re imagining. However, this post is not about Amsterdam. No Siree, this is about the amazing, amazing place called the Charles De Gaulle Airport (Pronounced Sharlesdegaul, or Chardegol or Chago depending on how much of a hurry you are in, or how French you are, or both) I am neither in a hurry nor French, so I’m gonna call it CDG (Pronounced Seedy Ji).

I’m not in a hurry now, but at Seedy Ji, I had 2 hours to catch my connection to Schiphol (pronounced Skhiple and as Achmed the dead terrorist informs me, is spelt Ess Phlegm Eye ….). So anway, according to the map on the plane, Seedy ji is in France. Ten seconds out of the plane (no aerobridge was provided, since the weather outside was so brrrrrrrrrruddy beautiful how could anyone miss it) you know that either France is a tiny cold India or you have been tricked and taken round and round in the plane for ten hours. Not to sound unpatriotic, but we do seem to mop the floors of our arrivals halls with a random mix of phenyl and pee. If we mop them at all, that is.

Then we climbed up a rickety spiral ladder-staircase and collided with passengers trying to use an aerobridge to get to their Emirates flight. For a couple of minutes, we got all mixed up with folks whose boarding cards were not going to be checked again before their plane took off! How cool is that? Eventually we were shooed back down the stairs in French, and we waited for our turn to use the corridor. Which led us to a hall where hundreds of people waited to board shuttles that would take them to their terminals. “Eff Eff Eff “ (not the swear word, the letter) we shouted and probably broke a few necks and legs as we made our way through the crowd into the shuttle. Thankfully it was so cold that the people we injured did not feel a thing till we were safely out of their reach.

We made it to our gate ten minutes before boarding, and this time was used in trying to find the rest room, and let’s just say we are not sure whether Madame and Monsieur went to the correct sections. Thankfully everyone else was even more lost than us, so we did not encounter anyone in the process of conducting our business.

I’d heard the Amreeka-flyer husband complain about Seedy ji and assumed he was too fancy, but looks like the poor dude was just asking for a clean and organized place as he got off one long flight and on to another, longer one. Seedy ji had their lavatory exhaust next to the cafes when we were taking off for India, so I’m hoping not to have to go there again. I do love their language though. And that pathetic view of the Eiffel tower from the plane is not crossing that goal off my bucket list. What to do? What to do?

Recipe Of The Day

The right and proper way to fry and consume an egg if you are me:

1. Stick a slice of bread into a toaster. It’s nice if it’s the mini-oven kind, because it dries up and browns the toast very evenly.
2. Take a very, very clean non-stick pan and heat it for a couple of minutes on a low flame. Add 2-3 drops of oil.
3. Break an egg into the pan, taking care not to pierce the yolk with the jagged edge of the eggshell. (This accident has a higher chance of happening when you’re cooking the egg for yourself or for someone you want to impress. See Murphy 179:2)
4. Now take a clean spatula and resist the temptation to mess with the egg for a minute.
5. Ok now stop playing with the spatula, switch off that toaster already, and gingerly test the edges of the egg to see if it’s ready to come off. If it isn’t, your gas flame has switched off and your house is about to catch fire, or your pan was dirty and your maid is about to be fired.
6. Once the egg is happy to let go of the pan, lift it onto the spatula. If you’re like me, your yolk is obviously not right in the centre of the arrangement, so lift the egg such that the yolk rests on the spatula. Now take the naam of Jai Sri Ram and flip the egg.
7. Not so hard! You’ve broken the yolk! Yellow goo is flowing out from under the pretty egg. Find someone who will appreciate a cooked snack and feed this to them, and make yourself another. This time, turn the egg over gently.
8. In a minute, begin the spatula prodding again, and convince the egg that the toast is a nice and comfy bed to lie down upon.
9. Turn egg upside down and sunnier side up onto the toast, this time saving the yolk from your spatula’s incision, and sprinkle salt and pepper.
10. Now, like a 2-year-old, break the yolk with the spoon and smear the golden awesomeness of it all over the egg.
11. Enzoi!

Side Effects: This recipe is known to generate a strong craving for Darjeeling tea afterwards. And rusk to dip in it.

Wakey Wakey

Remember the summer holidays, when the excursion to the mountains was done, the homework more or less completed, and the cousins had come and gone, and it was up to you to entertain yourself? Out came paper taken from dad’s office, with the letterhead portion torn off not-so-neatly using a footruler, and out came the box of poster paints, and the brushes. My brushes were always bent like a dog’s tail, and stuck stiff with the memories of ghastly artwork from many months ago. They were made with sable hair, apparently:

The sable (Martes zibellina) is a species of marten which inhabits forest environments, primarily in Russia from the Ural Mountains throughout Siberia, in northern Mongolia and China and on Hokkaidō in Japan…. It has historically been harvested for its highly valued fur, which remains a luxury good to this day. (Wickedpedia)

Yeah! And Camel/Camlin was making 2-rupee sable hair paintbrushes for my grubby generation of schoolgoers. Rrrrrrrrrrrright!

Anyway, the paints were all dry and cracked, of course. Asking the parents for a new box was risky. Before PowerPoint and Excel, it was difficult to make a business case for the procurement of new resources for a project that was not expected to even recover costs, so the old paints had to be revived. A bit of water, vigorous shaking (with the lid PROPERLY closed) and waiting a few hours yielded acceptable results. And when the brushes were dipped in water, they un-clumped and resigned themselves to the torture that awaited them.

And so it is with the blog. I’m putting water in all the cracked paints: the ochre of comedy, the Prussian blue of insanity, the crimson of angry rants, the black and white of memories, the green of uninformed opinion, and the brown of bullshit. The dog-tailed brushes are probably made out of dog tails, but I’m getting them ready again nonetheless!

Janworry

Happy new year neglected blog and all-gone readers. Facebook has swallowed me whole, I guess.

I'm the one who whiningly asked for a bit of stability in life four years ago, and have been awarded with it: same job, same house, same husband for four years! Which is all nice, except I have nothing to blog about. And the itch to shake things up is getting stronger. Let's see what mischief I can manage...

Fraud Pulao

Ever since I started digging my spoon into Malayali and Kannadiga lunchboxes at work four years ago, I have been envious of their pulaos (Yes, I’m calling them that, and let’s see who can stop me!). It does not help that I am too lazy to buy basmati rice, shell peas, or even buy coconuts. However, with help and advice and some innovation, I seem to have hit upon a successful recipe, and am sharing it with the world at large. The name is Fraud Pulao, because a lazy North Indian can con other lazy North Indians into believing this is an authentic South India pulao.

1. Take the wet grinder jar of your mixie, and throw in 5 cloves of garlic, half an onion, half a tomato, a fistful of coriander leaves, a half inch piece of cinnamon and three cloves. Grind it into a paste.

2. In a pressure cooker, put two spoons of oil, and let some jira sputter in it. Add the paste, and yell abuses at me while the steam burns your hand. Wash the mixie jar with water immediately afterwards, else the Husband will never be able to clean it later.

3. Now let the paste cook till it gives off a nice cooked smell. Add a pinch of turmeric if you are going to eat under a yellow light, because it makes the pulao look cooler. Under white light, you will need to add a little more turmeric if you don't want a sickly look. If you want an eco-friendly green look, leave as is. (If you think this is a vain, pretentious step, remember, I am half-Punjabi, and they are - allegedly - the women who put on make-up in the hospital after delivering babies, in case anyone drops by to say congrats.)

4. Now add the other of the onion (sliced into fine arcs) some carrot (1-inch strips) some beans (cut into 1-inch bits and split lengthwise, much to your thumb’s peril) and the other half of the tomato (finely chopped). Add a spoon of salt if you don’t want a burnt cooker (else the Husband will never be able to clean it later)

5. Now just add a cup of rice (for 2), 2.5 cups of water, and shut the cooker. Wait for one whistle, then leave on low flame for 5 minutes. Open when the cooker lets you. Eat with dahi.

6. Go back in the past and switch on the exhaust fan. Else this smell/aroma ain’t going nowhere honey!

So that’s what? 6 steps? Not bad, eh? No ghee, no basmati, and nothing that doesn’t exist in a North Indian kitchen (except maybe a darling husband who uncomplainingly cleans up after your culinary gymnastics.)

Ab Samjhe!

Everybody and their Amma blames the Indian education system for not teaching people how to think, just making them learn by rote. Am guessing Pakistan's education system is not much different in this regard. Look how nicely the Pakistani bookie remembers each and every upcoming no-ball while the sting journalist, who has obviously had a "thinking" kind of useless education, has to write everything down! And look where their education has gotten them! This is probably the only day in his life that the journalist will have seen so much money, whereas bookie dude is dealing with it so casually!

Please rethink your attitude to your education, fellow Indians/Subcontinentals... Your divorce rates are lower because you can remember birthdays! Heck, even your promotions are guaranteed because you can remember which metacarpal on which hand your boss' mother has broken!

Careening Into Insanity

Where does one belong? And to whom? And with whom? Apart from one 32-year-old 6-foot certainty, everything seems to be mad whirlwind. Whose pathetic idea was it to grow up?

Each new revealed expectation is like a three or four or six of spades added to a teetering, fragile house of cards. Spades ought to be for graves, not houses!

So much time in such a little space! I’m tackling life as a filigree piece, not as a checklist. Dear world, please just let me be that way!

Back?

Can’t recall where the last couple of months have gone. Anyway, here I am and this morning I sent a little paper boat sailing into a storm. Praying fervently that it reaches the other shore safely!

Travelled to Ladakh, this time for the snow and the apricot blossoms, neither of which disappointed. Came back with a killer cold that had to be nuked with a swine-flu-blaster medicine, but that will not stop me from going back to Ladakh the first chance I get!

Speaking of blossoms, I've been reading 2 Davids who are poles apart: Mitchell and Lodge, one a confirmed dopehead and the other a literary critic whose work I was force-fed at college and whose funny, wise and un-put-downable novels I discovered entirely by chance (I can never resist the temptation of buying a 150-rupee trilogy at Blossom). Loving them both equally, and while Mitchell has vanished from the shelves at Blossom, Lodge is hidden behind other books on a shelf that only I seem to know of! (We pay extra rent to stay within walking distance of Blossom)

Speaking of Blossom, it was awesome (sorry) to see Mayim Bialik make a reappearance on TV as the possible love interest of Sheldon on the Big Bang Theory. Being married to a Sheldon Cooper-esque specimen character dude myself, I'm eager to see if these guys can write a future for the two!

Blogger is tempting me to explore the template design feature. Off I go! Whee!