The Veil

It was around 8:30 a.m. I didn’t know it simply because I spotted my wife from the corner of my eye, holding her second morning cuppa—the one after the kids had left for school (the quiet cuppa, she called it). Nor did I know it from the crow making its first appearance on what had by now become its own ledge. It was because I spotted Saira Mohammed (or so I had christened her), appearing on the horizon.

From my second floor balcony vantage position, I could see her walking down a bit hurriedly today. Her abaya (as I had learnt was the correct term, not the more commonly used “burqa”) was flailing about as she walked toward the Chella Vinayagar Kovil, which was opposite our apartment complex. From my balcony, I could have dharshan of the Lord on a good day. Good day for me, that is.

It was a small and cute temple, actually just a shrine, but had somehow earned the reputation of bringing peace to the devotee. And so, needless to say, was nearly always full. But not today.

Saira went to the little space between the wall of the shrine and the house behind it, and removed her abaya. She then folded it neatly, almost reverentially, on her backpack, and emerged in a pink salwar kameez that brought out her features quite beautifully. Her eyes were pretty, almond shaped, and her nose was long and nicely shaped. But something seemed missing from her face.

She dutifully folded her hands in prayer, and immediately went to the brass container that was screwed to the pole in front of the sanctum, and wore the kumkum. Her chest heaved a sigh, almost audible to my second-floor ears. And her face was now complete.

Saira then went to the shrine, and recited a sloka without stopping for a break. It was as if a break would break the prayer itself. She was looking straight ahead, not at the Vinayaka on her right, as if transfixed.

When she was done, the priest, who looked at her sympathetically, or so it seemed to me, gave her a flower from the God’s garland, and she smiled and accepted it. She went around the prakara once, and returned to give God one last salutation. She closed her eyes and a tear escaped from the prison of her eyelids.

She moved away from the shrine and brought her palm to her forehead. Her hand paused for just a moment, trembled, and then the kumkum was gone. She went back to the space between the temple and the house behind it, and when she emerged, she was nowhere to be seen. She was metres of black cloth.

Her backpack was on her shoulders, and she made her way back to the bus stop. As she had been doing for the past ten months.  

An Unexpected Encounter

[This is for a writing exercise by my friend Ushasri Nannapaneni for www.ushaveera68.wordpress.com]

She was sitting by the corner seat—she looked totally out of place in the bustling Data Udupi Hotel—as if she had landed there my some mistake, and would, at any moment—disappear completely. The waiters, clad in ill-fitting pants and shirts of light blue, stood a respectable distance away.

The clatter and clamour of the outside world—the dust that was thrown up every time a bus passed by the dusty main road, the honking of the cars, the general ‘people’ noise—all seemed insignificant now.

I tried hard not to stare at her, but it seemed like the locus of the hotel had changed now, and it was inevitable that we would all look at her, even if we tried not to. She was wearing a gray business suit that fit her ample body perfectly. Her face was not what anyone would call pretty—but it had a certain look some might call stately.

She ordered a plate of idlis. When the server brought them to her, he laid them on her plate and somehow ensured it made no sound. No cling-clang. No thwack. When she ate them, one by one, her head didn’t move an inch towards the idlis—her hands brought the idlis to her mouth, as if the idlis had no business expecting her to meet them halfway.

She signaled for water in a fluid, almost poetic motion, and the servers emerged immediately with a bottle of cold mineral water. No “mineral or regular water?” “Cold or ordinary?” that I had been subjected to. She unscrewed the bottle cap and drank the water as one would in an ad. I nearly expected a “cut! Cut!” from some corner of Data Udupi at any moment.

Just then, my phone rang. It provided the break from the collective trance that the hotel seemed to have fallen under. It was an embarrassing ringtone that my son had set for me—“Ayyayyo ayyayyo,” it went. She glanced across at me too, and that’s when I saw a flutter of recognition in her face. 

The End of Reason.

TR012045693, or Troin 693, or Torri, as he was called, rolled out of bed. With a diameter of 3.15 metres, it was a bit of a struggle for him. He rolled over to the cabinet and picked out his pill for the morning. It was all part of his daily routine, one that had scarcely changed for the past 200-odd years.
He took the small vial, as he always had, unscrewed the top and attached it to his ingester. Yeah, that should keep him going until the evening. Torri had to go to work a bit quicker today. "Go to work" was a bit of a stretch-all he had to do was log on to the server and control the traffic from there.

There was something he had to report to HQ for today. He had received the message about 120 hours ago, and his body was automatically programmed to reach HQ by the prescribed time. He was just surprised he had to go there in person--most things would be achieved through virtual contact, he knew. But that was the limit of his reasoning, and that wasn't surprising. They had phased out the Reason 200 series, and Torri, whose "father" was one of those models, had opted to get his "Reason" attributes neutralized. "Makes for an easier life for him," he had heard his fathers tell each other.

It was rumoured that the Polit had commissioned a new Super Reason series, but they would not be hybrids--they would be pure-breds, and only used for military and government.

Torri was no pure-bred: in fact, he could trace his ancestry to the time that women roamed the earth. His last known woman ancestor was Priya. On an impulse, he reached for his records in the public database and accessed her photo.There they were--his image next to hers.

She, with her long black hair, and he, has most of his species, shorn of hair. He ran his hands, with all fourteen of his fingers, over his head, feeling the smoothness of his bald pate.

And their noses and mouths: hers, long and a bit curved at the end, and his, a pair of holes punched in his round face. And that which they called a mouth--there was just too much going on in her face. Instinctively, he touched the area under his breathers. Yeah, nice and smooth, none of those ugly monstrosities they called the teeth and the lips and the gums. Too complicated.

But the eyes-black and brown, and the only feature that spoke to him. He ran a matching algorithm, as he had a thousand times earlier, and felt a wave of tenderness when the screen showed the score for the eyeprint match: 100% match.

The price is right

Titius rushed toward the agora. He had to reach there today, or it would be a waste of time. His father, Hermogenes, had asked for a few slaves, and he had to go and do the needful. His father was a good man, he knew, even if a bit stingy on the money.

As he neared the marketplace, he got ready for an onslaught on his senses. He hardly left the agora without a few things he didn't need. He saw shimmering fabric, which his father had warned him against, but then, that was what all his friends were wearing. Surely, he could bargain and get a good slave even after purchasing just a little bit of silk?

He walked towards the store, and when he was done (or rather, when the trader was done) he had way too much cloth. And now he started to panic. He didn't have enough for one slave, let alone two that his father had ordered.

"Slaves! Slaves! Cheapest of the cheap" he heard someone shout, and went over. How much? 400 drachmas only! He counted his coins--he had 300.

He approached the seller and said, 300 for two. The man looked at him as if he were uttering blasphemy. "No way! I am already the cheapest in the whole area."

Titius didn't quite know how to proceed. "What about those men there?" he asked, pointing to a group who looked mean and lean. And missing a limb or two.

"They?" the trader asked with scorn, "They are missing this or that. Although perfectly healthy," he added.

He racked his brains to remember what his father had wanted them for. Not for anything important, he knew. They were just replacements for the old man who had passed on recently. So any old slave should do, he reasoned.

"Alright--give three for 300," Titius said with a tone that suggested finality.

The trader thought, and acted as if it were a grave matter, and agreed.

It was thus that Titius went home with three men--with a total of six limbs and five eyes between them.

When he went home, his father, whose eyes flared up in anger, looked at his stupid son and said, "My son, the cost, whatever you thought you had saved, is for the arms and legs."

"But, 300 drachmas for an arm and a leg? Way too much, dad!" he said.

"Yes, my son," said Hermogenes, trying his best not to shout at his son. "Slaves do cost an arm and a leg."

The Allure

Prompt from my dear friend on an omniscient POV:

Priya entered the 58-floor building with a sense of ownership. After all, she had worked at the law firm of Richman and Purzucker for several years now—she specialized in mergers and acquisitions, and was somewhat of an expert in it now. Today, senior Rip Schirtsoff had told her he had something really important to discuss—something that, he hoped, would make her happy. Everyone was talking of her promotion to junior partner, and she wondered, in spite of training herself not to speculate, was it true?

As she entered the elevator and pressed the button for the eighth floor, she saw her colleague Mark Palmer running toward her breathlessly. She kept the doors open and smiled at him. Mark and Priya didn't exactly get along very well. She avoided elevator chit-chat and played with her phone, to look busy. She had on her mind the upcoming merger of two of the city's leading retail chains.

Mark had a merger on his mind too, albeit a completely different one. He'd always had a thing for Priya and today, in her smart grey suit and skirt, she was looking hot, he decided. The top button of her silk blouse was carelessly undone (on purpose, Mark assumed, of course), simply adding to the allure. 

Priya moved away. Mark's reputation preceded him.  Sure, his face seemed chisselled and his muscles sculpted, and he looked like a Greek God, but he was supposed to chase anything in a skirt. Not something she wanted to get tangled with right now. Priya feigned to ignore him. 

Once he got one step closer when others entered the lift, his nose crinkled—what was that smell? Could not be her, could it?  It was like man-repellant spray. What was it called? An Indian friend had told him once. Mark racked his brains until it came to him—yes, sambhar. “Damn you, sambar,” Mark said, as he walked off as soon as the doors opened on their floor.

It takes all kinds

Prompted by my friend Ushasri:
(It's from a WIP novella about a dog who can read and understand words and has someone writing her memoirs)

That day, I went and stood by Maya's table, so that I could get some love. From here, I could clearly see her computer monitor. I was aghast! Her chat window had lots of emoticons. Oblivious of my literary and sight powers, Maya absently stroked my head while she kept typing in “blushing” icons. And at the top of the chat window was the username: sexygod.

The chat was quite inane—what did you have for breakfast? You were always good at cooking. I would die to eat from your hands. Oh, stop it. I’m serious. You know, things you’ve probably read a lot in books. From the conversations, it was unclear where they stood relationship-wise, I guess. And that was part of the elaborate mating dance.  

This was nice. 

I heard a noise in the kitchen, and Maya typed in, “I gotta go.” 
Sexy God says, “Where to? We were just getting started.” 
“My parents-in-law are downstairs. It looks like they need something.” 
“That’s ok. They can figure it out. Tell me, you’re alone, right?” 
“No. I have my friend here with me.” 
"He/She?” 
“It’s a she. Why? Do you want to know all about her now? She’s pretty,for sure.” 
“Really? Who is she?” 
“you’ve seen her too.” 
‘Really? Where? I am looking for pretty girls, you know.” 
“But this one’s a real bitch.” 
“I thought she was your friend?” 
“So what? Arjun’s not your friend? You don’t like him much, do you?” 
“Tell me more about this friend of yours.” 
“Why?” 
“Are you jealous?” 
“What do I care? I think you’ll be perfect for her.” 
“I know who’ll be perfect for me.” 
“Who?” 
“I’ll tell you later. Now, let’s know more about his mystery girl.” 
“She’s no mystery. She’s quite an open book.” 
“What is she wearing?” 
“How about nothing?’ 
“And what is she doing?” 
“She’s actually looking at me lovingly.” 
“You’ve got to be kidding me! I’m coming over right now, to watch.” 
"Hahahaha. Gotcha.” 
You get the drift. Haha. Very funny play on words. Making fun of me in the process. Maya was usually okay. She was behaving quite strangely today, though. 

You might wonder what the purpose of the chat conversation was. It’s funny—the first thing that my publisher said when he looked at my first draft was this: There are no dialogues in this book. Won’t sell this way. And then, the clincher: You know Paris Hilton’s dog’s book—it was full of dialogues. 

Oh well, the pain of being compared time and again, time and again. Why would there be dialogues in my book? I cannot understand what people say. So I had to bring in this chat conversation into the story. Without rhyme or reason. What can I say? Can’t a dog write what she wants? 

Sounds like fun!

The party was on in full swing when Priya arrived. She didn't know where Dev's house was, and was directed by all the noise. The noise from the stadium, punctuated by the irritating bugle"pa-pa-pa-ra pa-ra-paen", which was inevitably followed by a higher intensity general stadium noise was loudest from the direction of his apartment. 

When she reached the fifth floor, she could barely hear herself think. There were more discernible voices here, Adhi's and Manoj's, she could make out from near the lift, but could that shrieking voice be hers? Was it Kim's voice that she heard? "Dev, come hee-yer," she could recognize that voice anywhere: at least an octave higher than everyone else, and taking at least twice as long as anyone else to say anything. And the giggle--like a lizard's chuckle was cut into smaller bits and played back on loop--it was definitely her. It was like her voiceprint--no one else could possibly have that voice. She had half a mind to turn and run. But she stood her ground and entered. She heard Kim was now going out with Dev, but she couldn't be sure. 

The place was a mess, and there were people everywhere. She recognized most of them as her classmates, but some others were Dev's friends from college. Some of the boys turned to look who had come, and when Laxman Sivaramakrishnan shouted, "What a wonn-der-ful shot that was," returned to the large 42 inch screen. From what she could glean within five minutes of being there, looks did matter. And so did size. 

The sofa, faux leather and cherry, occupied nearly the entire length of the hall. And there were couples of all sizes there. Here and there. She thought a few of them had switched their other halves. It was all very confusing for her. She went to the nearest chair and took a bottle of beer for herself. 

A few overs later, the ruckus had died down a bit. CSK was doing badly, and the opponents were scoring above 10 an over. Ashwin was bowling this over, and the stadium was going crazy for Shane Watson--his home ground.

Amidst the general relative noiselessness, there arose a roar, from next door. "What a wicket," one could hear the unmistakable voice of Ravi Shastri, and then here, in Dev's house, all eyes were on the TV. Which ball got the wicket? And then the roar here. And then, once again, like Deja Vu, the sauve Ravi Shastri, "What a wicket." A pause. "This game keeps changing by the minute." 

Deja vu. 

I Heart You

I was waiting by the bus stop. It was hot, sweaty and I was yet to get used to the Chennai weather. The only thing worth all of this was when she came to the bus stop. I spent an equal amount of time looking in both directions--I couldn't really decide whether he wanted the bus to arrive first, or her.

Ah!There she was, looking all anxious, walk-running to the stop. When she was within running-and-catching-the-bus distance, she started walking slowly, as if she had triumphed over Time itself. In a pink salwar kameez, with a long notebook clutched in one hand and a small handbag in the other, he only glimpsed the corner of the book--it said, "Womens' Christian College." Ah, so she was a student there. Wouldn't it be a hoot if I staked out the college, like heroes his, in movies?

The sweet smell of perfume. She was now crossing me to get to the front of the imaginary line. It was really like a breath of spring. So that's what they meant in advertisements!  

Some distance away,  the pregnant bus could be seen. Bogged down by its own weight--what was inside it. I felt a weird kind of companionship with the bus. For one second. When it stopped with a screech, there was a mad rush. I let some of the others board before me (gallantly, I thought)--obviously, the girl was one of them. I wanted to push it, and tried to ride the footboard. But the veterans pushed me in. Jostling for space in this crowded bus, somehow, miraculously, I got a seat.

Scratched on the backrest of the seat in front of me, probably etched with a compass: S Vetrimaran ❤ Ramya Chandra . Love 4Ever.

If something could be right and wrong at the same time, this was it! Always the romantic, I melted at their love and wondered: Was this old? Were they now together? Was their love accepted by their folds? I would love to know. And were both parties in on this etching?

Not unrelatedly, I noticed she was right in front of me now. Perhaps his could be a good love story too. Perhaps it would be with her, the girl in the pink salwar. Staking out her college would not be a bad idea, maybe a good story to tell my grandkids. Or, more likely, my wife, when I was trying to impress upon her my romantic escapades.

"DPI" the conductor shouted. And I was back in the present. She would get down now. She turned towards the door near me, and I thought I saw her blush.

I now caught a glimpse of the long notebook in her hand: Ramya Chandra, the record book said, III BSc Physics. My heart nearly stopped.

And the bus resumed its journey. 

Save Our Tigers. How?

I've seen the ads supported by Aircel for the Save Our Tigers campaign.

I'd like to do something and support the initiative, and they say blogging is one of the ways to do it, so here goes, but what happens after that?

I doubt that anyone blogging or reading a blog will have any objection to saving tigers--they're probably already really sensitized to the issue. The campaign isn't quite clear about what the actual problem is, and how it plans to solve the livelihood issues of those villagers who poach and hunt tigers.

The Save the Tiger campaign plans to raise funds, but doesn't the government have enough funds already? This article says the government has Rs. One Lakh Crore funds unspent each year.

So I certainly don't want to send more money to Project Tiger. What can I do?

Unhealthy Obsession

start rant

What is this obsession with height, colour, etc.?

The TV is full of ads with claims of their "nutritional drink" being the best health drink to "increase the height of kids"! WTF?

What's wrong with being short? One ad says, "Kids always like to be tall.. so, use blah blah." Umm... kids also like playing in the dirt, and eating chocolate as their sole means of survival, lady!

How tall is the greatest cricketer ever? Or the Father of the Nation? Or Picasso? C'mon people--it is more repulsive than the fairness cream ads, honestly.

And parents better beware--if something increases your growth inordinately, doesn't it stand to reason that it probably has growth hormones in it?

end rant

Updates

OK. So I lost the NaNoWriMo Challenge--again. Realized that it's no joke writing so much, even junk! I only managed about 13,000 words before my plot lost me (or I lost the plot, depending on how you look at it)!

And in other news, I've had an epiphany of sorts. I always thought that reading and writing went together. If you read well, and widely enough, you'll be able to write decently. But I think it is not necessarily true. It takes a lot more than knowing what reads well to write well.

That's pretty much that.

Am Writing a Novel This Month!

Or trying to.

NaNoWriMo, or the National Novel Writing Month, is an initiative to get people off their a55e5 and write-- the goal is 50,000 words through November. The basic idea is that you write nearly 1,600 words a day, from November 1 to 30, and you have a novel ready. Or at least have written in a month more than most people do in a lifetime. Their Web site is at www.nanowrimo.org.

I tried it once, three years ago, and failed. But I hope to make it this year. By hook or by crook.

I'm already a week behind. Wish me luck!

This month's Heritage Lecture

This month's Heritage lecture by Dr.Chitra Madhavan is scheduled for this Sunday, September 13, at 4:45p.m. Venue: 28/2, Musiri Subramaniam Road, Mylapore, Chennai - 600004. Tel: 24992114.

The talk will be about the Nayak period. Dr. Madhavan is an expert on temple architecture and history.

Dr.Madhavan's talks are really interesting and down-to-earth, even if her topics soar high!

Read about her talk at the Madras Week celebrations here.

The King of Mambalam!

The rains are here, and that can mean only one thing: The King has now reclaimed his rightful place in Mambalam households (in fact, in the whole of Chennai these days)!

Presenting the current king of Mambalam households, the precursor of Diwali, the insecti naasini, the oli veesini,(drumroll, please!)Raja KOSU BAT!!!




Most come with a light, is that supposed to help us see the mosquitoes better? Our brand is Katungou (please show?) and it's been working pretty well for the past year. Remember to keep it horizontal when not charging or working, is what the salesperson said. Perhaps that helped?

The crackling sound, the little spark of light, the realization that you can feel so happy at the death of a living thing--nothing to match the simultaneous violence and peace that the kosu bat gives!



Best thing to happen to Mambalites since... since... not sure that there has been much good happening around here anyway!

My Madras Week

A burqa-clad girl singing rock, a young lady talking about clamps on Vishnu’s heart, and a walk where my landmark to the auto driver was worse than “Thiruppathi’la mottai thatha.” Oh, and I forget: steamy scandals of MK Thyagaraja Bhagavathar.

That sums up (some of) what I caught during Madras Week. It’s an awesome idea, and restaurants, newspapers, and marketers have caught on to what they think is a great money-spinning idea, coming right after Aadi. Let’s not forget that many of Madras Week events, by themselves, are free to the public, and a great way to get to know the city of Chennai.

Before I forget: the scandals were a reference to the talk by Randor Guy. It was packed to capacity. The scandals were not all that many—proof again that scandals and affairs sell. It was held at a place called the Madras Terrace House in Royapettah. The house seemed like a renovated Madras home with clay tiles and framed photographs of cinestars of yesteryears. It all looked good, but seemed to try too much to be antique, if you know what I mean. The talk itself was too short for the vast history that I thought he would cover. But it was a lot of fun, and I thought the Raja Sando character was too colourful—where can I get more info on him?

Anyway, there were five photowalks organized by the wonderfully enthusiastic Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan during the week. I caught the last part of the one inside the Southern Railway Headquarters, and some of the one on Mint Street. Here is where we were asked to congregate near the Jain Temple. It turns out that every other building on Mint Street is a Jain temple (although the biggest one was really big). I promptly got off at the first one, thinking it was it, and the auto driver, for obvious reasons, did not bother to correct me. My camera was kaput and I used the camera on my mobile phone, but just as a general walk, it was great!

Here are some pictures from the Railway HQs:






And here are some from the Mint Street walk:





I also attended what was billed as an evening of plays and performances on Chennai, but ended up being a string of bands (mostly college bands) belting out some numbers--covers and originals. Peter Kaapi was one of the bands, and the burqa-clad girl held my attention for a bit--she was a decent MC.



But honestly, I could not understand a word of what she sang in this song, “Asathoma Sadgamaya”!! The sloka was sung clearly and without many drum beats, but the rest, whoosh… over my head. Wasn’t even sure if it was English or Tamil. I’m partial to rap, but a duo calling themselves “Watta Bottles” came on stage, and I had a nice time listening to them. But like I say, I’m partial to rap. I didn’t have the time to stay for the whole program. BTW, this was at Alliance Francaise, and their canteen had some pretty awesome coffee/dry fruit cake.

Saturday was a busy day as I headed out to check out Chitra Madhavan’s talk on “Four Famous Temples of Chennai.” The house was packed, and surprise: snacks were part of the talk. These Heritage folks must have some major money! The talk was interesting, and I’ve resolved to attend more of her talks. Apparently, she has a monthly talk at the Musiri Chamber, 28/2, Musiri Subramaniam Rd., Mylapore, every month.

Sunday was low-key for me. Just attended part of the Madras Quiz. Learnt so much; forgot most of it! There was a nice coins, and rare books exhibition at the venue, P.S. Higher Secondary School.

I’ve decided to somehow learn more about my city through the year, not just this week! But when I was 15, I decided I'd be the CM of TN by now...

Too fast

Well, sometimes you just have to hand it to the police. For example, for working too fast!

Impossible, you say?

Listen to this: The Tamil Nadu Police have started a new service that encourages residents to SMS their complaints and public grievances. Well, we had one: the parking of lorries by a transport company on our street.

Parking per se was only part of the problem—it was the whole package that came with it: the young men who lived there, for one. They lived there—that should tell you the whole story. They bathed right on the front porch in their underwear, which had more holes than OJ’s defence; they brushed their teeth on the street, spitting toothpaste all over the pavement, so much so that it looked whitewashed; they were loud, talking on their cell phones late into the night.

But those weren’t exactly things we could call illegal. Parking on the street was.

We lived six or seven houses away—but it still affected us. And there was the problem. Forget personal space; even public spaces seem to feel the effects of overpopulation. In Chennai, more than 450 vehicles are registered EVERY day. And that’s according to 2006 estimates. So where does that leave the streets of Chennai?

Overcrowded, polluted, and cramped. And that leaves the residents in a foul mood. Add the weather into the mix, and it's a wonder Chennaiites have a sense of humour at all!

Most apartments do not consider parking space, or following the rules of construction, as essential. As a result, there is no space, apart from the road, for anything—playing, parking, walking, whatever.

What is the solution? Well, we thought that calling the police on their new SMS service might help in towing the lorries away. Only, our SMS was responded to immediately. And like an idiot, I didn’t check and see if the heavy vehicles were actually there when I SMSed the police.

I even placed a Rs. 1000 bet that the police would not come. But not more than five minutes later, a police car pulled up, in front of our house. And, dammit, the lorries were not parked on our street!

The police seemed irritated. But really, who knew they'll respond so quickly? Haven't they seen any Tamil movies at all?

The police said that parking any vehicle, on the street was illegal, not just parking lorries. So, he said, since he was already there, he’d write a challan for all the cars parked on the street. Which, of course, belonged to our neighbours. Fining them was fine by us, but that wasn’t too neighbourly and all, you see.

The police also advised us, “If you’re in danger, you know, your neighbours are the ones who will help you. We’ll be here, gone tomorrow.” Whoa! Wait a second there—back up a bit, I wanted to scream! Isn’t the police supposed to be there you’re in danger? I thought that was a big part of what the police did?

Anyway, after a lot of back and forth, and after attracting a crowd, the police went about their jobs.

And now, we’re scared that the neighbours are plotting to kill us. Maybe they’ll run us over by the lorries—that would be poetic justice. Or injustice. Whatever.

“Next time, check and see before you SMS us,” one of the policemen said. Good advice!

But anyway, here’s the number: 9500099100

Loved this recipe--had to share

In the continuing obsession with food, I loved this recipe for caramelized banana from Ambrosia.
It really is so simple and great tasting--one thing to remember, though:
Eat hot, and if you're the kind, eat it with cold vanilla ice cream... yummmm.

Jack of all Fruits

In our garden



I've never had raw jackfruit (called pala moosu) before. But apparently, jackfruits mostly come in pairs, and one of them is cut young to allow the other one to grow and ripen well. The young jackfruit is cut to remove the fruit, which is cooked and made into a vegetable just like plaintain is.

Also learnt: Raw papaya can also be made into koottu.

Memed!

I was tagged by Twisted Faktory to complete a meme.
The rules of this tag are:

1. Respond and rework.
2. Answer questions on your own blog.
3. Replace one question. Add one question.
4. Tag eight bloggers
The following are my responses to the questions:

What are your current obsessions?
Bringing down FIL's sugar--I will try anything and everything to do it--and he HATES it!

Which item from your closet are you wearing most often?
The one that needs least ironing—capris from Pondy Bazaar (Rs.200 for three), and a free corporate T.

What's for dinner?

Haha! Had a business dinner—so it was buffet at The Residency!

Say something to the person who tagged you:
I will kill you.

Favourite vacation spots:
Pondicherry
I think I’ll like New Zealand… can it still be my favourite??

3 things to do before I die:
Visit New Zealand!
Live
Write a book

Reading right now?
The Holy Mountain by William Dalrymple—just unable to get through it :(

What is the last movie you saw and enjoyed? Rate it out of 5 stars.
Saroja—****

Guilty pleasure?
Blaming any veshamam I can on Bruce--our puppy!

First spring thing?
Huh? Spring what?

Best thing you ate or drank lately?
Kirani/mint juice—made it meself.

Care to share some wisdom?
Wisdom comes from within.

Boon you would ask for if God came before you?
Hmm.. ask him to give me the wisdom to not want anything… is that possible?

Are you voting this time?
Yup.

What’s the stupidest thing you did in the last six months?
Quit my job!

Don't know eight bloggers to tag! Sorry!

Torture!

Not in the way you think!

If having chocolate all over your face but being unable to taste even a teeny bit (cannot, through the gauze, I tried) is not torture...

Anyway, that was the strawberry facial followed by a chocolate mask at Green Trends, Ashok Nagar (Rs. 700). I had tried the papaya facial earlier (Rs.400), which I liked better. The place was recommended by a kind friend, who also took the pics. The staff is friendly and courteous, though they try and push some packages, which is how I got sucked into this facial in the first place! (Note: Be firm about what you want.)

Green Trends is all over Chennai, but the Ashok Nagar one's at New #25/Old #18, 11th Avenue, near the Water Tank and the Govt. Library. Phone: 24718022. This link will help you find the Green Trends closest to you.

The chain is owned by CavinKare, the same company that made Chik Shampoo--remember those annoying ads?

Happy mummifying, then!