Youth Violence

I have a rather big post on the "What a wonderful world..." blog on youth violence - what it is, what causes it and its impact on today's world.

What a wonderful world...

Or is it?

A multiple author blog that addresses issues in our workplaces, lives and society and more, looked at from primarily a psychological, sociological and anthropological perspective.

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The 158-pound Marriage

I usually like John Irving's books, but this one was so unbelievably disappointing that I couldn't even finish half of it.

Hegde the Hegna

Hegde the Hegna is a friend of my friend's. S is an animal lover of extreme proportions. The only thing she's terribly afraid of, are cockroaches, albeit not as bad as my fear of rats, or hegnas, for that matter. Huge, foot-long (I can't say that now, without thinking of Subway), nocturnal bandicoot-rat. *shudder*

So my friend S and I were sitting in India Coffee House on M. G. Road, one of the cheapest and oldest places in Bangalore. So old, it could really do with some renovation. And cleaning. It's somewhere we usually go when we're broke. That was until we encountered Hegde the Hegna there. I now refuse to set foot in the place. S reckoned that the encounter had been too traumatic for me and so footed the bill. The lime juice was good, but I'm thinking how many rats there are in the kitchen.

This one time, we were having a mini college reunion in Koshys - sunday morning brunch, and a tiny rat shot past us from the kitchen and disappeared among numerous feet enjoying appams and stew that morning. M, who is jsut as terrified of rats, and I were sitting cross-legged on the chairs for the rest of the morning because the other two girls would not let us leave. I couldn't finish the rest of my scrambled eggs on toast for fear of what the rat could have done to it. The picture of a dirty, black rat sitting atop my scrambled eggs on toast didn't leave me for a few days.

Apparently, one is never 12-feet away from a rat. Or is that 8-feet? I have chills running down my spine at the very thought of that. The closest I've been to a rat is when one got into my room through a balcony and used my shoulder to get off a shelf and to the floor, to scurry away. I couldn't imagine having to get closer. My mum didn't have to. She had one foraging for dropped food between her feet at a local pani-puri joint just down the street. We don't go there anymore.

S, who has provided sanctuary for 2 rats in her own house, happens to think they are cute little things. Never mind the fact that they are disease carrying vermin that eat everything... wouldn't mind nibbling on your toes, even. I have vowed not to go to her place till she gets rid of the 2 rats. She'll just have to wait for pancakes with nutella, bananas and icecream that I've promised to make with her till she gets rid of the rats!

Virginia Tech Shooting & Mental Health

Syed and I had a long conversation about the VT shootings and the psychological and behavioural aspects of it. He's detailed them on his blog. There is a need for a separate forum where such discussions can take place, which we should have hopefully soon. We're talking online again on Friday at 1700 hrs, if anyone wants to join us. We're also being joined by Subha J. Rao (a reporter from the Hindu) and Senthil Kumar (a sociologist). The topic this week is going to be "Youth Violence".

The Brit and food...and alcohol, of course

Here's a post from a (deleted) blog I used to write 2 years ago when I was living in England.

When I came to the UK 9 months ago, there were 3 things that disturbed me the most.

The crap weather, the copious amounts of alcohol consumption by the average Brit and the lack of any culinary finesse.

The weather, I'll save for another day.

The Nottinghamshire police are having a tough time keeping the law and order in the city centre on weekends. 40 cops in comparison to the 2500 odd people, more young than old, flocking pubs, bars, clubs on weekend nights. Imagine even 10% getting drunk and having brawls over their slapper girlfriends. (How these girls manage to walk around town with barely any clothing on in arctic weather conditions - not just in Nottingham, but even in freezing Scotland, is just an amazing phenomenon. That's the 4th thing that amazed me...and the 5th was the amount of pink in the friggin country, but I shouldnt digress from the food and alcohol subject...I'll end up like Monty Python and the Spanish Inquisition, otherwise).

You go to a pub with British people, and there's only so much you can drink. They'll drink for 5 hours... pint after pint after pint by which time you've reduced your rum and cokes to jsut cokes and are having to run to the loo every 2.37 minutes. Some of my friends are just going to go back home with higher alcohol tolerance. Some came with it. A certain Irish bloke I know can have 13 shots of vodka, one after another and be stone cold sober, while I, after 3, am coming up with theories about how everyone in South America is actually Russian and having a row with a Mexican about who invented spicy food...Mexico or India. (It had to be India...how old is Mexico, compared to India? Bah!)

As for food, the Brit lack any sort of culinary finesse. I'd only heard how bad it was. Now I can confirm it. They are incapable of making a simple sandwich. How bad can it get?? Terrible enough to spit it out. A cheese and tomato sandwich has, surprise surprise, ONLY cheese and tomato on dry bread! no salt, no pepper, no mayo, no nothing. Thank God for Subway, one can get half decent sandwiches that you dont make yourself. The peak of their expertise at any attempt to make a decent meal is a chip sandwich... french fries with salt and vinegar on dry bread. Ugh. If it weren't for Indian or Italian or Chinese restaurants, I'd die. Small wonder they changed the national dish from being fish and chips to "curry".

Now this "curry" has another story. I walk into a North Indian restaurant (for the plain reason that Nottingham lacks South Indian restaurants...even one, and to get a dosa, I have to go all the way to Gujju-land Leceister where i'll get a white, soggy £12 dosa with sweet sambar made by Gujjus who spell it as Dhosa! Jeez!). Anyway, so I walk into this North Indian restaurant and order. The conversation with a British Indian waiter is something like this:

Waiter: Hi, can I take your drinks order, please?

Me: Just tap water, please.
(Subtext - You moron, do I look like I can afford to order drinks at your extravagantly priced restaurant? I jsut come here for a well deserved, monthly Indian meal jsut coz I cant afford to more often!)

Waiter: Of course. Are you ready to order food now?

Me: Yes, we'll have some papads, please.

Waiter, looking at me like I have 4 heads: Papads?

Me: Yes, papads. You know, those white, round things that are deep fried and served with dips (for some reason papads are served with dips...tasty enough)

Waiter: Aaaaahhh. You mean POPPADOMS!!!!

And I feel this violent urge to lift up the chair I'm sitting on and whack him with it. Poppadoms. My ass. He knew exactly what I was talking about. I doubt anyone living in an Indian family doesnt know what papads are. And what's worse is the other waiter talks in a half English and half Bihari accent.

Waiter 2: Be careful, ya? Its bhery hot.

Friggin Coconuts!!

A million thoughts running through my head...

So between trying to decide what to get my mum for her birthday tomrorow (breakfast in bed? day off from kitchen? flowers?) and work (meeting tomorrow for business association, lunch meeting, maybe a coaching session?) and excruiciating back pain (RSI? Should I go to an Orthopedic? Bangalore Hospital? Jayanagar Orthopedic Centre?) and killing mosquitoes (how does that justify my ethics about ahimsa and vegetarianism?) and waiting for the summer rains to cool Bangalore down (will it? wont it? cloud filling? it goddamn bloody well rain!) and contemplating my exercise routine (run? jog? walk? walk fast? work out? yoga? what'll help my back?) and what I'm going to wear for the meetings tomorrow (salvar kameez? suit? formal pants? with jacket? without jacket?) and thinking about the latest episode of desperate housewives (does Mrs. Mclusky really have her dead husband's body in her freezer? will Edie and Carlos sleep together again?) and the book I'm reading (Widow for one year is not nearly as good as Son of the Circus - that was brilliant!) and making a list of things I have to do tomorrow... ZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

And I'm back.... again!!

So here I am, back again after another sabbatical of almost a couple of years. Having blogged a couple posts in a few months. I just can't seem to keep away for too long. Especially since I realised what a powerful tool a blog has become since the last time I blogged. Which is why I've also started writing with my partner, Diarmaid, on a work-blog.

Anyway, so I'm looking forward to all my ranting, raving and aiyooo-ing on society (yes, now that I've moved back to Bangalore), food, culture, etc etc. here and have a more practical and professional side of me blog here.

Govinda's

No, that's not the Govinda, Goooovinda at the Thirupathi temple.

Govinda's is a vegetarian restaurant run by the Hare Krishna people (as they are known around here). They sell what they call "karma-free food".

The menu explains that Govinda (another name for Lord Krishna) means protector of the cows. Cows are sacred and worshipped... the essence of Hinduism. Hence, they serve only vegetarian food. Great, I thought... D, P and I are all vegetarians.

We met P after a day of Dublin sightseeing, ending with firangs in Dhotis, Kurtas and Saris... shaven heads with little "pujari juttus" - the Hare Krishna people - singing away, banging on Mridangams and Tablas at the bottom of Grafton Street. I could swear that the firang woman playing the flute wore her sari much better than I could even dream of without my mum's help. An amateur rock band were playing Whiskey in the Jar (originally by an Irishman, before Metallica made it famous) 100 metres up the street, their electric guitars drowning out the solemn chanting of the pujari juttus.

Of all the karma-free food on their menu we just decided to have a plate each with everything on their buffet bar piled on it. No accessories - papads, pickles, etc. Karma free food, remember? Lots of rice, dal, and "curries" (potato, cabbage, paneer, courgette and carrot). Good value for 9 euro. I wanted to try some samosas after that, but was too full. Anyway, I thought it'll give me an excuse to come back. Big gulab jamuns and square laddus were displayed as examples from the dessert menu. Wait a minute... square laddus? I asked the firang woman behind the counter

Me: Isn't a laddu supposed to be round?

Firang lady: Yes, but this one is square.

Aiyooo only.

She then explained that it was just easier for them to make it if it was square. I shot rapid fire questions at her for 10 minutes, judging if she knew what she was talking about. If I should risk it or not. Asked her what it was made from and how it was made. She gave me all the right answers - "besan", then explained ot me that besan was chickpea flour. The laddu was made with besan, sugar and "ghee". Still, I couldnt bring myself to eat a square laddu... especially when laddu is almost synonymous with the spherical shape. Golmatol - like a laddu or a rossogolla (Ground beneath her feet, anyone?). I remember, in school, when we used to tease a fat friend saying "yemme thara thinkondu laddu thara aagbuttidiya". Square laddus? blasphemy. It might have made it easier if they had jsut called it burfi. Made it much, much, easier for me to eat. And that too for someone as conservative as me about food rules. I wouldn't dare eat Northindian papads with rasam and rice. Those two food groups are kept separate. Ah, well... next time i'll try the gulab jamuns instead.

Next time, I have to try the samosas... for the first time, I saw authentic looking samosas. The ones in England are soggy and flat with the crust so thin that you can see the filling form the outside. And of course, they haven't heard of spices. I'm putting all my hopes on samosas of the Hare Krishna people. I saw them selling those at a weekend market in Temple Bar. Looked almost like the ones we get in K.C. Das. How my mouth watered... but I'd already spent my money on a crepe filled with salad, feta, sundried tomatoes and olives. I'm not complaining.... that was good too.

I'll just save it for another time. I'm here for 6 weeks, and there's lots to eat, including the posh restaurant Rasam (www.rasam.ie), which has no rasam on the menu, but what the hell!!

And I'm back!

There... after a sabbatical of almost 3 months, I'm back... complete, with my aiyoooos and rants about food and the lack of it and tales from paddy-land. Thankfully, no bathroom horror stories from now on...