My Saffronart - Manasjit Datta

My Saffronart - My Gallery - SaffronArt

BALL PEN BANDITS - A First person account from one of the Dreaded Gang

Never find a pen when you want one? Me too.
Where do they go to ? I look at working spaces as areas packed with dozens of invisible , mythical elves maliciously and magnetically gathering up ball pens by the armfuls, leaving defenseless souls like me with just an iPAq and stylus.
I need you to answer this question, hand on heart. It’s in the public domain, so I cannot guarantee siren-screaming carloads of policemen will not be hotly following your trail. Perhaps it’s categorized as misdemeanor and not a grand felony. Who knows, maybe they will just send in the rookies.
Right, let’s get down to it. Have you ever purloined a pen? By happenstance, glue or intent ? Confess. Well, ( deep breath here ) , I have. In fact , among the two pens nestling right now in resplendent plastic freedom in my capacious handbag, and playing a constant hard to get, let me admit, with my head hanging in abject guilt, neither is mine. There - I said it . I am one of the accursed ones -a Ball Pen Bandit. It’s the blight of the modern generation, the fast city life that we lead, the resultant lack of moral fiber and upstanding ethics. The expensive ones I have had last a day ,but the Rs. 5 plastic pens have done time of nearly a week , and in one instance ( it was a fat little red Kingfisher Airlines pen ) , it was almost an entire fortnight that we were together .
No , no, don’t worry , I watch all the detective serials on TV, and I have kept two of my lawyer friends on stand by , since I am aware , everything I say can and will be used against me in a court of law. My young lawyer friend just called to check whether there was any incriminating evidence. I said, yes there is, and it’s in the bag. I think he thinks it’s a gun, and I have finally lost my marbles and put a bullet through the pesky Car loan Telemarketer or my much hated Kitchen Designer . It’s tough, he knows, and there is provocation enough from these people, but still, a person in my position ought to be more careful , he says. . Get rid of it, he mutters inaudibly. But I’m still using it, I counter, so why should I ? Is it loaded, he asks? Why else would I carry it around in my purse, I shrug. That’s the whole point isn’t it – it should work in case I decide to use it. He says he is coming right over, and not to move or say anything till he reaches there. He asks me quickly if he and I are okay , and if I feel he has ever upset or irritated me in any way in the past . I am little flummoxed , and when I vociferously deny that ( he is such a great guy ) , he seems to be oddly relieved .
Let’s start at the very beginning. As a child, I moved from short sharp, pencils to leaky fountain pens and then regular ball pens. And then like Art Buchwald, after pens vanished within a blink-second of being with me, I started believing in the Ballpoint Fairy . After I lost my fathers two Parker ink pens, and one Mont Blanc in quick succession , I found that he would make a sign of the Cross , and start sprinkling Ganga-jal when I approached his study table to write something . A little over the top, I felt . I remember when the shiny Black and Gold Parker pen that he had kept safely since his graduation in early 1820 . It was ‘lost’ at my 10th Standard Board exams (no doubt to another smooth practiced Ball Pen Bandit), after which he has lost all faith in me . Not a single pen will you get from me ever again , he thundered, profoundly affecting my impressionable 14 year old mind, and possibly wrecking my delicate mental equilibrium forever . My surviving 1840 vintage Parker Pen will now be willed to my elder nephew, some one who is a darned sight more careful then you , and knows how to value important, sentimental things. Or possibly, even to the Battersea Dogs Home, he adds . I quaked. (Or is it I Quook?)
I wonder whether there is a movie script here. Richly defined characters, lots of early trauma , random pens, and glimpse of dark soul. Maybe they can get Vidya Balan or Chitrangada Singh to play me in the 70 MM version. And Amitabh Bachhan to play the Pen Proud Father (PPF). Well really , The Bachhan and the PPF do share a rich baritone, and both do thunder at you so beautifully . A potentially delightful display of righteous wrath.
Somehow all my pens get lost. It’s not surprising that the most expensive pen I bought was Rs 25 because it wrote in both blue and red. My shrink tells me that these initial incidents had a profound effect on me , and having suffered this horrible loss, I never fully recovered , and although I have fought the urge desperately, I have succumbed to the final ignominy of this abuse ,and became willy-nilly one of them – an inadvertent but definitive Ball Pen Bandit. We had a wonderful intervention when a group of nearly a hundred people helped me confront this horrible truth. The Ball Pen Bandits Anonymous (BBA ) is a little known Group. We value our privacy, and keep a low key profile. Bangalore Chapter Meetings are held in the football stadium behind the William Penn Store in Koramangala. Sometimes the current Group Leader exhibits his show of strength to his flock by a simple trial by fire. He strolls through the 10000 square foot Stationery store, lined with every writing instrument available, and even whistles a tune. We do notice that this brave, brave man trembles uncontrollably after he returns, and gulps like a fish, but the thunderous round of applause after his triumphant return is a big motivator for him and all of us. Good people, these.
For the first week of therapy, I had a BBA Buddy who went ahead to every place I went , and recommended that they lock up their plastic pens. We have therapy sessions once a week, but she is clever this shrink – not a single pen on the desk when I walk in . Not one. The attendance register at my office now has the ball pen tied and knotted with string to the spine of the book. When I sign the roster, I have tried a discreet tug , now and then, but darn, my colleague at the front office , she’s good too, I must admit . Very good.

Well, I must go. The young lawyer is here now and has just asked me to sign a document ad attest a copy of the shrink’s certificate . He pushes paper and pen toward me. It’s a Kingfisher Airline Ball pen, one of my favorites. And such a steal. I vaguely put it away in my bag after we sign off. He sighs, but knows it goes with the job, and gets added to the bill.

(First published in Daily Mirror , Bangalore )

Mobile Addiction – New Age Ball and Chain

I rarely read about a newly found disease without being convinced I have an early version of it . Nomophobia refers to the fear of being without your mobile . Its a goner ,I thought - I have it for sure . The UK Post office has coined this one ( NO MObile PHOBIA ), so you can send the congratulatory mails off to them , while the rest of us poor saps wonder whether (a) we do have it , (b) just how bad it is and (c) do we have to go to sanatorium in Switzerland for a cure .
I read reports on cell phone radiation and its harmful effects on the brain. Apparently prolonged mobile usage worse than smoking or exposure to asbestos. In my case , and considering my extent of mobile usage , its probably like smoking asbestos ! In fact I think the infinitely more dangerous situation is stepping out of home ,and discovering the dark reality and definitely greater evil that you have forgotten your mobile. Brain damage ? Pshaw - a mere nothing. Maybe the stem cell research guys can help us grow a brain back from the medulla oblongata onwards in the next few months . On the other hand , no mobile ? That’s a possible paralytic stroke , or asthmatic attack I would wager , no less. Tch, difficult choice , this one.
There is a space between my ears where my brain was earlier resident , but that’s been charred to smoke by now. The sizzle I thought I had is now really the sound of pale gray matter being deep fried on a mass of radioactive waves. The radiation from my blue tooth ear piece , coupled with my advancing years has clearly put paid to my earlier hopes of a life term membership at Mensa. Ironic really , when you think of the mobile supposedly helping you do your work better , optimize performance etc, How then how do you explain standing around with an idiotic simper on your face because you are talking to someone important , and when they ask who is calling , and I have forgotten my own name . Today I referred to a visitors colleague as Tinku , when his name was actually Tarun. I talk about a Shanta when I mean Sheila .My colleagues well used to these strange twists of names , immediately join up the dots , and nod . In fact, kind souls that they are , they say they actually now prefer Tinku, an indication of their solidarity and nay, supportive acceptance of that airy-gap-between-the ears. I am grateful for their unselfish support in these trying times . There are some times when asked a tough question like How are you , or How is business, I am forced to pick up my mobile , google the phrase , and possibly double check my answer by sending a text to a friend, and then reply monosyllabically with great triumph – ‘Fine’. Very often I am even right . The Marvels of Technology, I tell you .
A casual reference to getting some rest for the wicked , and attempts to prise away the mobile from my claw like fingers are met with strong defense . Nothing can part us . As smoke continues to discreetly billow out from behind my head , and an increasingly vacuous look clouds my countenance, the mobile remains crooked against my arm, for all the world like a favorite teddy bear . The opposable thumbs so valued by primates, are evolving into claw like structures more suitable to super fast texting.
The Significant Other once made serious attempts to get me to go cold turkey , and carefully ‘lost’ the mobile one weekend . However even his stern heart was wrung by my pathetic but determined attempts to connect up the TV remote , the Worldspace receiver antenna and a piece of plastic, and try and then desperately attempt to make a call with this contraption from the balcony. Apparently there is a discreet sanatorium In La La Land where these desperate addictions can be attended to , but it requires time , and patience . However relapses are common and the sage specialists rarely give guarantees. Strangely, their visionary recommendations of Tree – Houses for all, Jungle Drums or ESP as an alternative method of easy and instant communication have not been met with much acceptance .
So it’s a choice between brains and convenience, and (Maggi 2 minute noodles fans will bear me out ) convenience always wins. However, the human spirit never gives up . I have overheard discussions on range and costs of jungle drums , and just yesterday , saw the Significant Other downloading ‘Communicating in The Amazon Jungle in Ten Easy Lessons ‘( trainer drums come in free ) .
Until then, the mobile gets heavier , and is starting to grow roots at my wrist .

(First published in Bangalored Mirror, My Views )

Tales of Kings and Kindness

Once upon a Time, a Kind and Gentle King traveling through the forests was accosted by a group of skinny mendicants who wanted to know where the river was, as they were very thirsty . As he walked them to the river, they attacked him . The dacoits, for that’s what they really were, beat him up, and stripped him of all his wealth- his coins, gold and jewelry. The gentle royal let them take all they wanted and when they were about to leave with their booty , bruised and battered, he asked them for one favor. Delighted with their booty , they readily agreed . ‘Do not ever share this tale with anyone outside’ .’Oho’, they sniggered , ‘so you don’t want it to be known that the great king himself was robbed in his own land , do you ?’ ‘No’ , he replied , ‘its because I don’t want them to feel that kindness could be repaid with betrayal and loss. They will never take pity on another fellow human again. And where will that leave all of us ?’
Cut to the Modern Ages. Read yesterday’s news paper. A man who has had an accident in front of a good Samaritan , who then takes the apparent accident victim to the nearest hospital finds himself surrounded by six thugs who take away everything he has got . Its reported – and parents tch-tch and say he should have been careful , not to get bamboozled by these goonda types. A man at Mekhri Circle flyover helps out a poor chap trying to change a wheel and gets jumped by the ‘ poor guy’s friends , loses his cards, mobile and cash , and gets his arm broken when he resists.
We all sat in school and on our parents laps and heard how we must love my neighbor, that we must be kind to our fellow men. That’s all very well , but there is an urgent undertone now - first assume the other guy , bandaged or bloody , is not first armed and dangerous. Else wait for the next car to come cruising and let them be ( snigger snigger ) the good Samaritan. I mean you can be kind , but you don’t have to be darn stoopid !
It seems sometimes, the law itself is against kindness . Moral and legal obligations seem to be quite different from place to place , and person to person. The first question is of course whether we need the law of the land to define what kindness is. Apparently it does matter. The French Criminal code makes it a crime not to help someone in need of assistance when help can be provided at no risk to oneself. Common Law under which the English and American systems are part , says the law cannot compel active benevolence . When the law compels a person to act in a certain way, it limits that person's liberty, and it does so more severely than if it simply tells a person not to do something.
In India curiously, a person who kills another in an accident is held for manslaughter whereas if the victim is only injured , its attempt to murder . So for the accused, causing death impacts him less than injury – strange. Till 7 years ago I think people were scared to even take an accident victim to the hospital as they could get needlessly involved in a long drawn police case . The law later passed absolved good Samaritans of any problems, and things became relatively easier .
Kindness seems odd to mandate. We all know instinctively what must be done in case there is an emergency or assistance required , but somehow get better at responding to that kindness in a group. All alone, and no one to count who’s standing, there is an increasing reluctance to lend a hand -Both for our own safety and the inability to showcase one’s kindness to an audience. My kindness is limited to time spans that I am free , and also to the typical convent school education that we have had , stepping aside for an older person in the elevator, helping someone to pick up scattered belongings . But this isn’t selfless. I also feel irritation when someone I have assisted at a department store to pick up all their bags , does not even acknowledge the gesture with a simple thanks.
I am no angel, nor am I the King. We need the barest of excuses to give up kindness. . I deeply feel what he says when he wants the innate desire to help to be protected at all costs. One day it could be you and me out there , and that is an awful argument to use , and a selfish point of view, but nonetheless true. And what do we want to have done unto us? Do we want our neighbour to cruise by, assuming I am a potential murderer and thief and that by helping , s/he is only causing himself inconvenience and pain ? I do what I can, but I do try my best . I hope I do not become so hard as to walk away when it matters.
Despite the headlines, I still hope that you and I can continue to depend on the kindness of strangers.
(First Published in Bangalore Miirror - My Views )

Just Another Day

Too much made about these Days, I hear – Father's Day , Valentines Day , Women's Day . Possibly .

I read with interest articles on why on earth we need a special day for women . Much of it true. Another drop in the ocean, another way to be able to make a noise , albeit for a short while.

But here’s what I think . I too don’t believe that one day doesn’t suffice to celebrate or address women of this world. Maybe 365 would do . For the urban , privileged, the off the cuff reaction is ‘ C’mon. Why all the fuss, hey why don’t we have a Men’s Day too ‘. (Well for one, men don’t need the leg up.) It seems a little indulgent , maybe a tad self conscious – to go to seminars and walks and events to celebrate women, ourselves. Or then again, maybe not .

Women Leadership and Empowerment , albeit from a corporate perspective, is an important issue with me. At several of these events , there are women who are listening , who haven’t realized that other women have similar experiences , problems, concerns, and they grow stronger with that knowledge They talk to the experts, listen to role models, they pick up advice , and many go back , validated , relieved , empowered, a trifle more centred , and happier . They know how much better off they are compared to many of their rural, poorer sisters who have not the luxury of discussion or debate, just the fight for existence. .

At one event , one young woman spoke impassionedly about the guilt she feels. Guilt when she walks in through the door after work , and looks at her husband , child and mother in law. Time away from them is time she cannot justify , but she is economically independent . 50 other women respond as one. They know how she feels , all of us do . And she has to take ownership for her own life and space in the modern world, and she has to stop letting other push her buttons. A 50 year old woman is keen to get to work , but she did a year in an NGO before she was married, and its been 25 years since then . Who will employ a 50 year old, she says and her perplexed husband is asking her why work NOW . So is she , but she thinks she wants to , but she doesn’t know why . A few hours bonding with other women present , and she is stronger , and she realized she is ‘allowed ‘ her time in the sun, and now, she now knows how. If just these two women felt stronger , better , I think it would be worth it . And if the woman’s husband just feels like he should order in dinner to treat his wife for the day as a token , maybe that isn’t such a bad thing either .

Of course its foolish to have just one day dedicated to Women ,and maybe we should legislate 365. Of course it doesn’t make all the ills women face go away , it doesn’t address the sickening issue of female feticide, the appalling fear in which many women live, the abuse and fear some face. Marketing promotions, special offers at supermarkets, pubs, boutiques and shops may undermine the importance of the event , and convert into a gigantic circus, but its superficial-ness does not take away that it is well meaning , it’s a spotlight , provides a platform, its gets focus on women’s issues . While we may pick up the candy floss, we also need to get the structure and foundations right . Lets suppose we are able to address 3.6 % of the issues faced by that one day and its resultant conferences , seminars and boring speeches, the centre stage that it brings women. Oughtn’t we fix all the 100% at one shot , and isn’t this all tokenism , you might say . The fact that because of the one silly day you and I look differently at our maids, our friends, and perhaps some of the less fortunate, is a tip of the iceberg . However, I think we should step back, be a tad less churlish and let that 3.6% percent happen. World Hunger Day hasn’t stopped Ethipia, but maybe its made a dent . That’s good.

There are dark places in this room, and there are some corners smoldering with age old neglect and fear that is fetid . Here is candle that is lit in this near corner, flickering shadows off the ceiling . Yes, we absolutely do need to light up the whole room, harshly expose the whole space , scrub the fungus off the walls, pull down the smelly walls perhaps, Surely extinguishing that one happy candle in the room isn’t quite going to save the world . On the other hand, on the off chance that it might, perhaps we could just let it burn .

My views – lets get the electricians , fix up the fluorescent tube lights, lets clean up -but in the meanwhile , there’s no need to blow this candle out.

Rani , the Traffic Dog

There she is on the mid right of the picture -a small dot curled up under the traffic umbrella, if you can spot her .

I first saw her crossing our road soon after we moved home. It was just past 8 am . She sniffed at , but ignored the biscuits I had scattered for her , but moved on to the traffic signal . All the school traffic, crisscrossing cars , pedestrians , I was a little worried . She curled up near the traffic umbrella, right at the middle of the road . And then returned to pacing , much like a mother waiting for her carousing son to return home. Not overtly anxious, and seemingly in control , but intently listening, ears straining, to any sound or sight that signified the return of the prodigal. Her tension was palpable. Up down up down. And then 8.30 am the Traffic Policeman arrived . She greeted him with relief , but with restraint and dignity , and promptly settled down at his feet , as he started his day guiding traffic , and went to sleep . The anxiety was now history .

That was my first introduction to Rani , the pragmatic High Grounds Canine Traffic Mascot .

She is an indeterminate furry tan , triangular ears, black nose and swishy tail. She doesn’t look like anything special , just your average ,well maintained street dog . But she’s a dog on duty .

I watch her nearly every day as I get to work . The routine is the same , day after day . If her informal owner is a little late signing in , she moves up , and waits discreetly outside High Grounds Police Station , and then accompanies him at a safe distance to his place of work -wherever he is stationed that day . There is no great moment or display of canine affection , even a bark or lick to signify pleasure or belonging . I watch the daily routine from my car , waiting for the signal to change to green , always a little worried that she should not come to harm. With the ease born of long experience, she moves across busy traffic , crossing effortlessly , almost casually weaving through whizzing cars, but anxiously picking up pace if she sees the uniforms moving elsewhere . But quietly and efficiently , she is never more than two feet way from one or the other pair of khaki clad legs. I think Sundays and late nights are her worst times. Neither is her Traffic Cop in chief there , nor the Second in Command. She goes off to curl up somewhere , I am sure , but have no idea where .

But I know she back on duty at 7 am pacing the road , more focused than an attendance register . I have never again attempted to feed her after her several dignified rebuffs, and I know they take care of her . One day , after I found her missing for over a week and asked one of the policemen on duty – who though initially taken aback , immediately suggested I should adopt her ( yeah right, but has he met CJ the killer spaniel !) . I asked him her name , and he looked nonplussed – "Er um , no name as such , but I think we call her umm ..Rani’ . Good, now I have a name, I thought . Rani was back to duty the following week, this time with a bright red collar , but that too mysteriously disappeared a week later , and I must say she looked a little demoted in rank . She has got her own beat , she is sensitive to changes in traffic lanes , which traffic island is the shadiest in the afternoon heat . Rani is one cool dude .

One Sunday afternoon, the bossman caught us for a traffic offense. We didn’t know that a traffic light had been introduced that day on an earlier free right , and the policeman chased us down to stop. I looked at him appalled , while he licked his pencil to start writing the challan. First , I was in the right , I thought ( I wasn’t , but I didn’t know that ! ) and second , this was Rani’’s boss man , and therefore , our friend by canine relationship. "But the rule is new – you know its been implemented today. Moreover, ( as if he ought to know, and it was the final argument ), I am Rani’s friend. How can you book us? ". Now its his turn to look completely taken aback . CJ my spaniel , bent on protecting me, adds to the ruckus by perching at the car window, screaming choice canine abuse at an impassive Rani , who looked at her stoically , but still moved just trifle closer to boss man . The policeman is unused to large, voluble women jumping out of cars , claiming friendship with his dog . Bosses yes, DGPs, sure , Goons sometimes, Ministers maybe, but a dog ? That’s a first . His mouth and eyes widen appreciatively, and he waves us on . I think he will have an interesting anecdote for his colleagues and wife that evening ! Rani gets up , and pads after the Bossman , who is now chasing down yet another hapless culprit .

The picturesque High Grounds Police station has just been torn down, the traffic rules have been radically changed , there is mayhem at peak hours. I think Rani is confused , her job portfolio has changed , and sometimes I see her skittering away when a truck bears down on her , but the sight of familiar pair of khaki clad legs settles her down.

So when you see the familiar sight of a standard issue tan dog, alertly lying at a traffic umbrella on Palace Road , ensure you follow all those constantly changing traffic signals. Rani the Traffic Dog is on duty.

Doggy Blogs

http://adoptstrays.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default
Lots of stuff about animals that need to be adopted in India. So nicely done


Anand Chhaya - a story of a good deed gone horribly wrong , and 170 dogs starving until we clean up all the paperwork required http://anandchhaaya.blogspot.com/. Need to raise some funds for this.

Not Being Shahrukh

I’m so glad my brilliant husband listened to his mother , and stayed out of the film industry . Also Sports, the Music industry , TV, and the Arts . Poor chap , he was forced to turn , broken and battered , to the lowly worlds of Engineering and Management like all thwarted wannabe true achievers/celebrities do. We could just have had a ShahRukh in residence , but it was just not meant to be. Sigh .

After ShahRukh Khan being served a notice for sneaking a cigarette puff in the recent 20-20 cricket match , I admit I am seriously concerned. I have frequently called in my husband in from the balcony at home , while he is having a quiet ShahRukh moment , in the worry that we will have groups of activists and lawyers from ASH ( Association against Smoking at Home ) , clambering up the pipe , hissing legalese and pulling out rule books and Lung Xrays to throw at him . His adoring public could be seriously affected , I gently remonstrate with him. He really ought to be careful . My husband wryly tells me that his viewer-ship for the nonce is limited to the two pigeons perched on the air-conditioner , and the next door gardener . Never mind , I reassure him , this base that he must abide by. The long suffering look on the usually impassive spousal countenance deepens, for some reason. He also mutters that if someone pays him an 8 crore endorsement fee , he would definitely try and cope with the pigeons (two ) and gardener .

Look at the other superstar , Amitabh Bachhan . He was served a notice for posing, horror of horrors , on a movie poster, smoking. I understand that he is a non smoker , a teetotaler and vegetarian , but that is neither here nor there. I also hear that he was portraying a gangster warlord, and was merely trying to look the type. Pshaw, I say , pshaw. The undeniable fact is that SUPARI , the premier association for retired gangsters, took strong objections to the typecasting of their community , and confirmed categorically that no less that 76 % of their brethren were non smokers. The incorrect depiction of the members has caused them much pain and suffering . They are considering their legal options. That one AB poster led hordes of loyal fans like myself , screaming and shoving, to the nearest paan-beedi shop, buying up stocks of the cancer stick , like it was going out of style . I understand the concerned cancer stick companies were considering a ‘buy one get one free’ offer to those who carried the poster to the paan – beedi shop but were thwarted by their legal team . The lawyers who have observed the increasingly militant stance of the concerned organization ( popularly referred to as Look Ma, No Lungs ! ) thought it could be a possible smoke out. Hmm , I need to think about what I have just said, or first show this draft to my lawyer .

One really must be mindful of one’s image and public these days. Look at my Dad for example . A retired Army Colonel , he had been frequently seen sporting a dapper pair of shorts , on a non sports day ( I must admit they are starched, ironed, four pockets and belted ) , and although I have gently chided him to wear appropriate attire , he barely listened. Well, once the strong letter from the Association of Moral People against Display of Arthritic Knees (AMPADAK) arrived ,he sat up and took notice, I must say . Though I do feel that his wearing two trousers , three pairs of socks, and long sleeved shirts with a spiffy cravat, is a trifle over the top. In fact he has even been asking me for a Balaclava. The trouble is they just don’t listen. And then – they simply cave.

My spaniel CJ is in the doldrums too , and can be spotted tripping dejectedly over her own long ears. It seems that her enthusiastic and loud singing along , in a manner of speaking, to the well known ‘Happy Birthday to you’ ( it could well be ‘ Hips Don’t Lie ‘ , but one cannot really commit on this one ) has created a distinct pressure in and around. I hear that Elders from the shadowy BARC ( Brethren against Raucous Caterwauling ) have been spotted , shaking their head , pursing their lips , and getting into a distinct huddle around the conference room . We fear the worst . Our legal team shares that due to her long spaniel ears , and her possible inability to listen to her own vociferous vocal support , she deserves more pity than censure . In fact , he suggests , we could even put in a counter suit , suing them for insensitivity to her disability . But we resign ourselves to the inevitable. She might well be sentenced to go , unaccompanied , to the Trinity School of Music , in London , for upto a year .

My maid has now asked me for the name of a good lawyer as well . She got a stiff note from the Society Against Clothes Hanging in Public Places (SACH-App) and has tearfully sworn to their Treasurer , that a drying wet towel , saree or sheet will never grace our home balcony again . However , her frenzied attempts to enter a small clothing shop and tear a well draped saree off the glass display counter while we went Diwali Shopping recently, was certainly a trifle excessive, and I have reassured her that a Society has not been formed for that as yet . ( I didn’t tell her that I had heard rumors of a retired insurance adjustor in Telpur, who has been trying to rally support for this cause as well ) Her sobs of relief were tragic to hear .

I must admit I hesitate to complete this article . Certain persons well acquainted with those in high places have whispered in my ear that the formation of the Bangalore Chapter of BARF ( Blowaway Authors of Ridiculous Fiction ) , could well throw a spanner in the works . Dear , gentle readers, bear with me while I recoup on this one. Or until the resident Shahrukh finishes working on his Six Pack and Smoldering Gaze .

Heroes in Waiting ...

The daily grind instead makes cowards of us ..

I come back home, and the silence near the security area , instead of the usual welcoming leap and bark of Bonzie the community pup who was stolen earlier this year , hits me . Its been 3 months and my heart tugs worrying about where and how she is . I have called to remind the police station , have re – sent mails to friends and relatives with the picture . The " Pup Missing’’ poster with her bright eyed picture ‘ is faded and peeling near the building entrance. The mobile rings and I focus on the call, and I walk through my front door .

I haven’t followed through enough , and that reminds me what a coward- in-waiting I am .
As I get older, I see daily tragedies of incomplete opportunities, of incorrect prioritization, and the sadness of " I should have ". Knowing doesn’t change the reality , knowing that you do what you can, not what you should.

Do we view ourselves as essentially kind and decent people ?You can be good , do the right thing , but do you follow through ? Does experience make you nervous, cynical, resistant, lazy about going out of your way ?
I don’t know.

When I was 11 or 12 , I ran up to a teenager in a tonga who was mercilessly whipping his pregnant mare , while the wounded animal whinnied in pain. In rage, I yelled at him to stop , and when he didn’t , I caught the whip and hit him instead . Abuses and threats followed and he moved away quickly when my mother emerged , but stayed within visual range long enough for me to see that he was taking it out even more vengefully on the horse . I can still see his grinning face at the end of our road . I knew that the horse was going to get a further whipping later . And that was a realization that it wasn’t black and white . Righteousness could be misplaced, slayed dragons would breathe fire again . I was crushed – but maybe I should not have been so impetuous in my anger at the unfairness of it all . I felt I had done right , but the mare was the one who paid .

The same thing happened with animals that passed our old house , being taken to the abbatoir . I just could not understand how cruelty was being heaped on a animal that was going to die anyway . I had my moment of rage , but the owner would just hit harder when I was out of sight . There was a little I could do .

About 10 years ago , when I heard a young maid at the house behind us , crying bitterly etc, I intervened with the nice mother of two, that the little girl had some rights too , and she should not hit or abuse her . After a couple of chats across the two bungalows, I stopped hearing the cries, and was glad that I had been assertive on this . I was wrong . My maid told me that ( possibly mortified and angered by my interference ) the family simply sent back the girl to her village. Her father was very poor farmer with 8 children, and could not afford to feed her , and she was sent to Bombay with some relative, and like many others , was never heard of again. Intervention, righteousness and do – gooding, said my maid Why didn’t you just let it be. At least she had two meals a day , and a safe roof over her head . I hear the unsaid reference to our Ivory Tower , and I cringe inside .

The little children at traffic signals, the drooping druggedl ittle heads lolling from their ‘mother’s ‘ arms , dangerous trapeze acts or sometimes simply begging are especially difficult to handle . I see a 3 year old crying bitterly , but with his hand still stuck out , weaving dangerously between vehicles , pushed further by his older ‘brother ‘, who is maybe 7 years . The familiar helpless anger comes over me as I look at the tear streaked face of the boy , and I roll down my window ( A five rupee coin held ready though) and yell at the brother to stop bullying the toddler and take him back to safety . The signal changes and the car pulls away . My head is skewed back to see them, and I see the brother using the steel ring for his circus act to hit the tyke on his back . He catches my eye , grins, and hits him some more . Rich Memsahib has a voice, huh ? But woh kya karegi , she’s gone now right ? Yes, I am . And after few minutes of familiar clenching frustration, my mind glances away to focus on the appointment I am delayed for . Cowards in waiting .

But that evening , I see a TV advertisement for a publication , showing a familiar traffic jam , honking vehicles and frustrated commuters. The politician predictably finds a way to slime out of it . Alone. A small , curious school boy works through labyrinth of vehicles ,and finds that a fallen tree trunk straddling the road is the culprit . Others slowly join in when they see the determined youngster and in the pouring rain , it is fabulous to see the magic of collective action ( if not me, then who? ) . Needless to say , the tree trunk is collectively shifted , the traffic moves, and there is a happy ending . My heart lifts .

And there are heroes in waiting – quiet ones who just believe what they believe . Daily dal-roti heroes . Yesterday I read about a van filled with dogs enroute to Hyderabad ( to be made into something disgustingly called bow-wow biryani ) being noticed, chased down, and apprehended by a couple of animal activists who turned them into the police. I notice the names of the persons who chased them down . I know one of them . She is a tiny thing , soft spoken and perhaps one of the gentlest persons I know . But this woman saw the suffering dogs , and pushed herself to chase down and take on 3-4 men in the van . And she succeeded . She rescued the dogs, got the police and corporation attention and went back to her life of daily quiet heroism . Kudos, Sujaya .
I haven’t found the answers, and I admit its too uncomfortable to keep searching . But I want to hear of the Sujayas , the schoolboy with the fallen tree. Coward-In-waiting , I want to hear stories of courage of conviction, because who knows, one day , I might get it right , too .

Maa Tujhe Salaam

For mothers and daughters - for remembrance, loss and for life


Three best friends sat chatting over this weekend , discussing how scary it was that we were becoming just like our mothers . All of us are neither 18 nor at college anymore . Life has taken us to different countries and mindspaces . But when we come together, its still like the old days , giggling at sleepovers , talking about everything and nothing till 3 am in the morning . Respective Moms groggily coming in to the bedroom and asking us what on earth do we find to chat about so late , and do we need to sleep or not ? And then indulgently offering a cup of hot chai, or a whack on the head All three of us have now lost our mothers in our adult lives . Somewhere in the transition of chatting like teenagers and cribbing about our moms as kids, we became our moms. All three of us – I see it . Maybe earlier we were defensive about it , but right now , Viveka, Nilam , if someone sneers we are becoming like our moms, I’ll darn well take it as a compliment .
We have spent time being mother-henned, loved and bullied by each other’s moms, and when we three look back at that suddenly empty space in our lives, we realize just how much of our childhood has gone. We are grown , we have our own homes and families , but there is a big hole that remains in a way few will understand , who haven’t felt the same loss . Childhood is not an age , it’s a feeling - a feeling of cocoon, comfort and innocence, a warm lap you can bury your head in . And however strong , you are never more bereft , and lonely and adult than when you lose your mother .

January 31st would be thirteen years since the death of my mother . It happened suddenly over a period of two weeks, a short illness where we just had time to swallow that this was for real , and that she would be gone forever . She was sweet , big hearted and ironically she died of complications from diabetes and a enlarged heart . She broke my heart . And she never lived to be old .

Unlike most people who believe that death lends instant halo to a departed soul, I have no illusions about this very fallible , completely madcap, and hugely warm woman . But I loved her , edges and all , from my gut . It was an unquestioning love, visceral fights , big hugs , magic moments and all. Its difficult to define a mothers love, and the sometimes claustrophobic living inside each others heads . Its difficult to explain the look of pain mirrored in her eyes when things sometimes start falling apart in your life. The sacrifice , the desire to want the best for you , the constant worry, the last hot phulka that always seemed to appear on my plate . Each high , each joy, each disappointment was intensified and lived through in her own life , and its like playing your life through an amplifier . I look back at all the things I took for granted .
Looking through her hand bag after she died , I found the tattered news clippings of the few articles and poems that I had published when I was teenager . She had kept every single one, and I cringe with embarrassment to think of how many people she must have shown the puerile stuff to . I found my report cards , my first visiting card, the letters written to her on school and college holidays, my baby booties . Holding the oft opened press clippings that day, with the scent of lavender and mothballs rather than the scent of life wafting around me , I sat down and wept for her, for the finality of it all, for my loss , for life . But she was fiercely proud of me, of my small successes , my every progress and independence . She truly believed that the sun shone out of my eyes , and was foolishly convinced, like all mothers are , that I was destined for great happiness and high places . However embarrassed I was , I must admit she gave me whatever confidence I possess .

She could be in your face, she was funny , silly , nonsensical ,loved people, was a friend in a million – you could always count on her , but was easily hurt . She found joy and laughter in small things, lived life kingsize , could be happy with next to nothing , would never let my father and I sulk for too long ( we both had ticklish feet, you see ) , had a big laugh that was hard not to join in , had a temper and a half, would run your life if you let her , but was intensely protective of her own. Impulsive, well dressed , ( Beta , are you wearing that ?!!) she loved parties , was a great cook , and took her duties as an Army wife seriously. Her life was completely consumed by her husband and daughter . Your regular garden-variety mom . And suddenly the house that rocked with that vibrant life force, bubble and laughter became silent , and quiet spaces slowly became voids that could never be filled.

I see glimpses of her face sometimes, when I look into the mirror these days, and I wonder , if like me, she felt the swoosh of the sand in the hourglass . I realize she must have been a person too, not just a mom. I still hear the echo of her laughter , and her delighted voice almost shriek my name when I occasionally would call her from work to say hello .I would twinge with embarrassment . ‘Mooom, pleeeeease , stop IT’. It was so easy to make her happy . But its an echo now , and a memory .

Despite the passage of years , there are some things I still cannot do , without being wrenched . I cannot watch her favorite majestic crimson gulmohar trees explode with the advent of summer without remembering her . I can never pass a tailor without recalling the number of times she chided me regarding missing pieces to be stitched in my wardrobe. I can never hear the rain lash at a window without remembering her face pressed against the glass, fall with anxiety for the homeless people and dogs out there ( while I would go outside to do my Snoopy Happy Dance ) . I cannot hear the word Beta without turning around and looking for her . I cannot see a film or news clipping about the 1947 Partition without remembering her tears at leaving her homeland as a little child . I could not understand her pain then , but I think I do now. I cannot hear AR Rahman’s Maa Tujhe Salaam , without closing my eyes , and mentally sketching a salute to a great mom . I cannot open a Tarla Dalal cook book in my bookshelf that illegible, sprawling writing on the flyleaf, saying ‘Dearest Darling Priya, Happy Birthday ! This year , you MUST learn cooking , Beta. Love lots , Mom. ‘’ without grinning .
I still can’t cook.

There are too many memories clamped between my ears and years , and I think many things still to say , that weren’t said . I know , that all grown up and independent today , whenever and wherever I take a small step forward , even now, in my mind , I hope I am making her proud and happy with the daughter she raised .

And thanks Mom , it was a helluva ride. From all three of us , (although we would have been happy to stay kids for little longer ) :

This one’s for you, Mom .

I dont want to blog

After Bonzie went missing , I cant seem to write a post , or get back to this page . When I do , I see the bright coloured , happy pictures of the kids and Bonzie , and it breaks my heart.

I haven't moved on really, but at least I can find the stomach to pick at the scabs when I returned here today .

New Years Eve..

New Years Eve …
For whom the Bell Tolls
Lets be rational - Its just another day in the year .

But there is something about New Years Eve that gets my eyes popping, heart racing and entire ganglions going nggggggg in a straight line. I am quite convinced that I have to give an account to someone upon high , and state name , age , qualifications, in addition to a quick but thorough summary of what I have achieved in the last 365 days. I can hardly say I washed the dishes , and watched American Idol .

New Year's eve is like every other night; there is no pause in the march of the universe, no breathless moment of silence among created things that the passage of another twelve months may be noted; and yet no person has quite the same thoughts this evening that come with the coming of darkness on other nights. ~Hamilton Wright Mabie

I admit it . New Years Eve makes me frantic.

Teetering as I am on the fine line between today’s report card results , and getting ready for the next grade , I have enough time to nervously gulp and swallow, and figure out whether I have saved the world as yet or not . Turns out I missed out by a whisker on that one. So that’s still on my check list , I am afraid .

Friends take pains to avoid me, picking up their skirts in a marked manner and quickly swishing past before I accost them with an impassioned eulogy on the Meaning Of Life. At my second querulous iteration of " But WHAT are We doing here ", or ‘Who am I really ?’ , ( while firmly holding a Frank Kafka book ) , some run off to the nearest restroom, holding sal volatile to their nose . Some gift me with a plaster reproduction of Rodin’s Thinker , in the hope that I would focus my energies on the statuette , and understand that if indeed the pained expression on his face came from thinking , it was clearly better to suffer indigestion instead . Others assure me that the adage " I think, therefore I am ‘ was not meant to be taken literally by me , and I could now go and lie down, and give my tiny but overworked tired brain a rest .

I understand completely why people madly party to drown out the sounds of a quietly dying old year , and the promise to a young , yet untested new year . Charles Lamb , in his eponymous essay on New Years Eve captures the sentiments beautifully :
EVERY man hath two birth-days; two days, at least, in every year, which set him upon revolving the lapse of time, as it affects his mortal duration. The one is that which in an especial manner he termeth his. In the gradual desuetude of old observances, this custom of solemnizing our proper birth-day hath nearly passed away, or is left to children, who reflect nothing at all about the matter, nor understand any thing in it beyond cake and orange. But the birth of a New Year is of an interest too wide to be pretermitted by king or cobbler. No one ever regarded the First of January with indifference. It is that from which all date their time, and count upon what is left. It is the nativity of our common Adam.

New Years Eve indeed makes a temporary monster out of me. Normally sanguine, I am assailed my doubts and sense of wanting to make up for lost time. The door to the next room is ajar ahead of me, but I want to stay in the room for longer – there are so many corners I have not explored , and I haven’t even admired the antique furniture , the carved ceiling, or dusted the cobwebs on the mantelpiece . And most importantly , I can see the sand inexorably running down the hourglass. But sometimes that’s what we want , to have that one chance to again rearrange , create and pack into the last 12 months all the things that we hoped to be, wanted to accomplish , hoped to achieve .

New Years Eve mails I receive from others typically read : ‘Dear Friend , Here’s wishing you a happy new year . Best wishes for Happiness, Peace and Prosperity . Regards , X ‘ . In the meanwhile I write long paeans padded with ponderous quotes about the year past , unfinished business and new beginnings. Nervous recipients write back to appreciate the mail , and also to make gentle queries into the last time I visited my psychiatrist or counselor . They talk me about the benefits of Prozac , and the tremendous advantages of joining a remote Asiatic sect , which focuses on a quick blow to the head as initiation ceremony and blessings. It’s a very secretive group, they whisper , but they kindly promise to send me the website , and the Chief Head Banger Monk’s mobile as well . It’s a wonder that I have not sent half my email address book into either a cycle of depression and a psychiatrists couch , or perhaps made them into madly motivated dervishes working maniacally on mile long to-do lists . Start points among the first 100 could include :

Item 1 : Stop World Hunger . Item 2 : Ensure World Peace . Item 3 : Be nice to the pesky neighbor and his wife . Item 4: Be a better Person . Item 5 : Let there be Love , Peace and Goodwill to all Mankind .Item 6 : Will to do that African Safari this year . Item 7 : Get India’s growth rate into the double digits. Item 8 : Lose weight , or negotiate bulk liposuction rates from friendly neighborhood cosmetic surgeon .

You see what I mean .
Me, I am starting with easiest one on my list .
I am going to save the world.
It’s a little late now , so perhaps I will get right to it after breakfast tomorrow.

Temple Elephants see Red...

Today's Times of India carried a Page 2 story on the trauma suffered by Temple Elephants. Menaka , a young 17 year old pachyderm at Yeshwantpur , has had painful and fatal gangrene on her foot , that comes from wounds caused by standing for hours on hot tarmac in the sweltering heat , chained and tormented, while collections and offerings, are taken in her name . Vets have confirmed she has little chance of survival .

You know what causes an action response , of concern among people like us ? Clear and present danger . They can be dangerous . And then we wake up and wonder what should be done. Its suddenly not a minor 3rd party problem of the softie animal activists - its right at our door . We may be passive - to the suffering that these gentle giants endure while being party to our endless and beloved rituals, but what is worrisome and gets our attention is the possibility that once roused or angered, they also have potential to do huge and irrevocable damage. Witness the number of incidents of elephants running rampage on crowded streets, in the middle of a festival , goaded beyond endurance by cruel mahouts , the heat ,or lack of food or water . A grown elephant requires like a ton of water and vegetation to survive, and more often that not , they get discarded flower garlands, temple prasadam , cooked waste and so on .

We are traditional , we are modern, we need to return to our roots, but surely we can let this lovely , sad eyed animal out of the drudgery of standing by, chained in pain and discomfort while we chant our mantras. And apart from the obvious connection with one of our most loved Gods - Lord Ganesha, we must know that there is nothing in our tradition or religion that mandates the temple elephant as part of the temple rituals . Its merely an indication of the temple standing and its sponsors, that's all.

Return them to the forest . There they may have to take their chances with low hanging electric wires , left to sag low by the forgetful BESCOM , that could electrocute them ( so many incidents in Bannerghata ), or the wrath of the villagers whose fields they might enter. At least they are free. Or when they turn against us , in pain , wretchedness, and slavery , let us not blame these long suffering Jumbos, if we or the innocents are trampled down .

The Simple Things ..

The simple things

Warm flaky croissants, curved on your plate with a dab of melting
butter.The aroma of the accompanying hot coffee.

Piping hot phulkas, straight from the tava, with yellow daal, aloo
mutter, a dangerous green chili to bite into in between .

The first cup of tea in the morning, with a couple of crisp rusks, the
hot fluid sipped with great reverence. Aaah.

The wiggle-snuggle down into your quilt, and the soft whirr of the
fan, as you drift into sleep .

C o m f o r t .

The wet nose of your spaniel, and her snuffly breathing , as she
burrows into the nook of your arm, as you awake.

Yep, the simple things.

Car Pooling Website - Greening of Bangalore

I got this link on car and bike pooling from a ecologically tuned in buddy .Commute Easy is a website that allows you to car pool , set up a buddy network , figure out logistics and costs , and also tips you on car pooling etiquette . Don't forget we are still new at the formal car pooling system ! We have had informal system for years , but with distance growing , and the city bursting , its great to see such an initiative in place . My spouse and I have shared a car and driver for quite a few years as our places of work are adjacent . So yay, we are doing our bit . I know I do tend to hold him up in the mornings as I always have a last minute call or mail to send before I leave. Well, we need to iron out the edges .

It would be great to see the usability statistics of this initiative. and how it growing .

Bangalore leads in Diversity and Inclusion

I was at a CISCO Diversity and Inclusion Event today . Great panel , excellent breakout sessions, I loved it . IT companies are aggressively and seamlessly carrying in Global Gender Diversity practices, and are increasingly becoming employers of choice for many smart women. Some of the panelists from Dell, Infosys, CISCO, Motorola and IBM were upfront and matter of fact about their company perspective , their own take on the subject , and as importantly its impact on the India of today . Ranjani ranganathan , the effervescent Sr MD of CISCO had some probing questions for the panelists, which got everyone in the audience thinking .
Some of the systems in place in companies like this ( as well as Motorola, Intel, Accenture et al - all Bangalore headquartered, by the way ) like for Mentoring, Leadership, Networking and Growth are truly excellent .
And they truly believe.
The top management truly believes.
I see happy endings. I see awareness . I see it work.
A bit far fetched , all this , and will it really work , said one cynical media person to me . Why not , I said . Things have changed . Its based on the realities of business as usual , certainly not in order to patronise or placate token women in the workforce.

That aside, the business pressures on other companies in India , created by strong organisations like this and India's booming economy is going to result in a far more open ended opportunities for Women, and a seismic shift in perspectives . The bar is being raised , and all women will benefit , as will eventually , the economy . And Bangalore with its plethora of Global IT and Off shoring companies is leading the charge .
I am delighted , I truly think this is fantastic. More power to their elbow . I am rooting for them.

Bangalore , take a bow.

I think there is going to be tremendous scope for the Womens Business Council (WBC) at the Indo America Chamber of Commerce (IACC) if we just get these wonderful heads together - why reinvent the wheel ?

Bonzie aka Blackie Update

Refer earlier post on the arrival of Blackie, the smarty-pants /Apartment Invader/Pup.

Here are a couple of updates.

• She is now called Bonzie, because we think she should be a Bonzie. Not Bonzi because thats a boys name . The 'e' is definitive .


• She has g r o w n .


• She has three proud ( but young ) sponsors in the building who are delighted to play , feed and look after her , much to the chagrin of their parents . As you can see, to young Abbas, Shraddha and Ain , she is pretty much still a PUPPY!


• She thinks she's a baby , and will submit to being carried around for hours!


• She does not have blue eyes - its just the camera !


• Coltish and lithe, she is Queen of the Porch , and is warmly welcoming of all building visitors. Noise levels are deplorable.


• I think my entire building hates me for letting her be , but she is so cute ! The kids love her .


• She has a little record book from CUPA which confirms that she has had all her rabies, lepto and distemper shots , and that she belongs to the Building Association . She is due for spaying next month (ouch!)
• She is great buddy with next door neighbour Prashanth's six month rescue pup, Ginger . Watching them roll around together , and play - fight till they are exhausted, is really cute . She is feisty , this one.
• This does not stop Bonzie from a deep desire to explore the neighbours garbage dump .Three determined and undignified baths by Ain have still not fazed her.
• She has had her smart green collar and leash taken away three times by the neighbouring building's security guard . Once, I hear , a box/can was tied to her tail , much to my Army dad's fury. Perhaps for above reason. I still think its mean , because without a collar or license attached to the collar , the Corporation/Pound could seize her or put her down because they think she is stray and dangerous.


• After Whitey passed away , in some way , Bonzie is perhaps my chance at redemption.
  
  I hope she finds a good and permanent owner/home soon.

Looking .

Flying cheaper skies, Part 2

Enroute to Mumbai now.
Air Deccan this time.
We arrive at 6 pm for a 7 pm flight- I wear a halo, as I have never been this early. Of course the flight is 20 minutes late. Or 'tawnndie minnids' as the Air Deccan ground staff tells me.My husband asks me if they have separate lounge seating for the Cheapie, sorry Low Cost Airlines. I think I'm seeing the emergence of a new caste (cawst? ) system , but on an airline platform.Important sociological trend,methinks . I think my significant other is being politically incorrect. I think its possible he's not a very nice person.

There are serpentine, winding queues (separated in an undulating way by high cawst/low cawst boarding passes). It takes ages to reach the window. We start the boarding process, packed 50 to a bus, seemingly traveling miles and miles in fits and stop-starts to reach a row of 6 identical Air Deccan planes. In mofussil buses and planes, how do we know we've got the right one , he mutters worriedly. To confirm his suspicions, an Air Deccan groundsman , runs past, saying 'Bombay,Bombay', and the entire busload runs helter skelter along with him,hopefully to the right plane . Free seating in low-cawst, r'member? We now board the airline, Yellow and Blue air hostess Anu smiles n welcomes us in and we find some free seats.. Good so far. Husband starts to look human. Neighbour in window seat and bright orange shirt in gets his laptop out , after stepping over both our aching feet. Sorry to disteb maydom, but I vaant to use my laptop. I'm impressed, and I immediately also whip out my HP iPAQ, to also keep up with Vadivels. I blogin a serious and focused way. What on earth is he doing , whispers Signigficant Other. I glance over - n see him with an Excel sheet typing in numbers madly. Making crores as we speak,I'm sure . We are all being politically incorrect, tch.

Enroute to Bby for my sister in law's birthday today. SO and I sport black t -shirts saying 'Happy Birthday,Liz', with a cheesy TIME magazine cover shot of her n my niece. The SO (Significant Other) is embarassed, I'm not. When I went thu physical security check , the lady guard curiously asks me who's the photo. She smiles delightedly as I explain. She thinks its fun. SO is looking increasingly glum. Yelling 'surprise' in identical tshirts to the delighted Birthday girl does not redeem the awfulness of it all. In his eyes, he has established himself as a sensation seeker , an exhibitionist, no less, and is trying to avoid meeting anyones eyes.. Wearing matching tshirt with the wife is giving him much trauma. He starts to trip on his chin.

Hyuk. Wait till the unwilling exhibitionist reaches the Mumbai airport and finds even his brother who's picking us up, wearing one.

Burrp, a new Food review site

I liked this one .

A friendly, fun India Food review site http://www.burrp.com/ that I chanced upon today . Has reviews on restaurants et al in Bangalore, Mumbai, Calcutta and I think Chennai . Has a nice building -block , light, collaborative feel to it .I logged in as allhail , and I wrote two sample reviews on (you guessed it Vijay !) Kadambam and Infinitea . Check out my profile at Bangalore Burrp. http://bangalore.burrp.com/user/allhail

Masala House - Review

Dear friends arrived from cyclone torn Muscat , and a restaurant caled Masala House on Cunningham Road was brought up as an option to catch up and spend time .

Never heard of it , but what the hell , sounded exotic, thought we would give it a shot . Seems to be a plethora of these old bungalows that have been converted to swish new restaurants , all formal seating and soft cushions. Masala House in a little lane next to Accenture office on Cunningham Road. You could blink and miss it . Nice ambiance , pleasant service .

Ordered three different items, after the arrival Assorted Tikka Platter ( exquisite !) while we waited for our friends to arrive . A brinjal thingy , a Chicken in Coriander and a Fish in Mustard . All the gravies ( when they did finally arrive ) were identical . Thick red tomato base with either coriander or strong mustard. This despite asking for clear details on the dish composition .( my keen gourmet sense veers between - ' so is it a green gravy base or a red one. oh-ohkay its white , hmm right , sorry' ) .

Rotis ( the Indian bread assortment , saw-reee!) arrived sporadically .Most of the time we had a radidly congealing gravy on our plate with nothing to eat it with , and frantic signals to the waiters ( all looking studiously down at drinks menu , or the bills ) were in vain. I do hate that when food arrives in instalments. These tiny restaurants like Aangan and Queens (fabulous home type food - the paapdi chaat and the tangdi kababs have been couriered from heaven ) on Church Street are so quick, and efficient . Side dishes and regular roti updates from keen-eyed waiters ensure a nice meal . Average desserts a Masala House - rasamalai , and hot gulab jamoon.

Dishes were average to expensive at Rs 220-50 a pop , and food apart from being flatly the same, was so-so. Good , not outstanding .

Maybe for starters / or snacky evening next time, but would pass for a meal .