I was at a family function yesterday. Most of my family functions happen in Kerala. They work as great excuses to bunk office, travel by train and most importantly EAT. Once in Kerala the routine numbing weekday transforms into a highly orgiastic day of exercising number two and number four of the Seven Sins, Gluttony and Sloth.
This last visit saw me wolf down 8 appams with stew followed by 4 adas(a sweet preparation of jaggery and grated coconut in a flattened momo style rice flour, the whole preparation is then steamed in a banana leaf). There is nothing better than a Malayalam movie to keep you company in the midst of all this and Mukillyatha Rajyatha was heaven sent at that moment.
Promptly after the last ada vanished from my plate the eyelids turned heavy and the bed beckoned. Morning siesta over it was time for lunch. Though the fare was a simple rice/sambar affair the highlight for me was the unlimited servings of banana chips and 2 preparations of raw mango, one a chutney kind of curry and the other a freshly cut and spiced pickle. Lunch over it was time for another trip to a far far land. The heat tried playing spoilsport with a power failure but with such a laden tummy nothing could stop me.
The function was a "grand success" as such events are described in various sections of the media.
A general occurrence at such events is that all the seniors in attendance, out of curiosity and possibly ulterior motives of a future alliance making, enquire on my status education wise-"MBA not done still?" and work-"how is the new company?". These are the the two prime questions, followed by other meanderings. I have been wondering if there is a possibility in the near future where such curious peoples' lives is made easier with a tablet kind of contraption which lists out the tedious details of a person's bio-data matrimony-wise.
PS: Ennui continues unabated after the lazy weekend trip to Kerala.
Rest my weary limbs/soul/eyelids.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Reader's block
I am facing a major (atleast I think so) problem for the past couple of weeks or more. I cant read anything for more than 5 minutes. I start off something and then 5 or max 10 mins later I have turned to something else. Concentration is becoming highly economic. Irritability is also high. Withdrawal symptoms was my first guess, and then I asked from what?
Settings might be main cause I have decided. Most of the reading now happens on the way and back from office. Travel takes a good 2 hrs of my day. Its tough to concentrate when you are virtually in the middle of a death race with each driver taking out his bit of anger, with the world, on Hosur Road. Add to it the high bass effects of the latest hits from Hindi and Kannada mixed with the non stop raucous talk of RJs, and any reading goes for a toss.
The downside of such travel and 9 hours of work in between is when you are back home the only thing you wish to do is get numbed by the TV. Its quite unbothersome in the way it sits there and lets you stare at it. Apart from exercising your eyes It hardly troubles the body. The lone digit that has to change the channel gets slightly vexed at moments but never feels strained. But wait I am digressing, my reading habits were being talked about till a while ago. See, its the same with writing. I have in my to do list 3 posts pending, one on the trip to Bijapur, one a short story and the third about the Bullet ride to Sakleshpur. The topic of discussion wanders away, untethered. Is it a sign of a crossover from the classical to the days of hyperlinking and shortening of patience?
Maybe I just need a good lazy Sunday to put up the legs and open a taut thriller or a mellow travelogue.
Maybe I just need to put my mind to it.
Settings might be main cause I have decided. Most of the reading now happens on the way and back from office. Travel takes a good 2 hrs of my day. Its tough to concentrate when you are virtually in the middle of a death race with each driver taking out his bit of anger, with the world, on Hosur Road. Add to it the high bass effects of the latest hits from Hindi and Kannada mixed with the non stop raucous talk of RJs, and any reading goes for a toss.
The downside of such travel and 9 hours of work in between is when you are back home the only thing you wish to do is get numbed by the TV. Its quite unbothersome in the way it sits there and lets you stare at it. Apart from exercising your eyes It hardly troubles the body. The lone digit that has to change the channel gets slightly vexed at moments but never feels strained. But wait I am digressing, my reading habits were being talked about till a while ago. See, its the same with writing. I have in my to do list 3 posts pending, one on the trip to Bijapur, one a short story and the third about the Bullet ride to Sakleshpur. The topic of discussion wanders away, untethered. Is it a sign of a crossover from the classical to the days of hyperlinking and shortening of patience?
Maybe I just need a good lazy Sunday to put up the legs and open a taut thriller or a mellow travelogue.
Maybe I just need to put my mind to it.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Time Out
The dust settles, and two wide grins behind the windscreen of a Mahindra Bolero welcome us. We pile in, luggage and all. Gears shift and we are off bumping up the road and it looks like we must mandatorily pay our respects to all the craters visible and invisible. Intermittently snapped up by the dark when Mr A switches off the headlights, we are headed to Craigmoore Estates in Polibetta. Wiki says that Polibetta has an excellent 9 hole golf course. I am more into 9 course meals and such like, a liberal dose of spirits before the meal included.
A neatly trimmed hedge with the board proclaiming the estate’s Scottish descent greets you at the gate. A rubbly path leads you down; over a rectangular strip of grass trimmed by the underside of the wagon; onto a wide area dropping you off at the rear entrance. Saddam, the “One Eyed Dalmatian” stands guard along with “Bingo the Canine Baring”. A whine escapes its throat, and it’s reassured of our credentials.
The sun smiles down on the red esplanade and matching mansard roof. Tea in one hand (bear in mind we are in a coffee estate), nicotine stick in the other, mundane talk happens. The call is heard and we flock to the breakfast table like the faith full. Rice rotis, chicken fry, a delectable fish curry and mutton gravy stare at you from behind covered plates and pots. Our own plates filled, liberal helpings of ghee heaped on to the rotis, we settle in for a journey where the taste buds are taken for a gentle spin much like on a coracle. Cells refurbished, we open the board, for a game of Monopoly. Freshly squeezed lime juice washes down the remnants of breakfast. As the others progress to build houses and hotels on Mayfair and Strand, money and sites mysteriously vanish from my portfolio, as mysteriously as a chilled beer landing in my hand.
Lunch was another cell bursting explosion of chicken biryani and other meaty dishes. Some of us retire to the esplanade conversing under an open canvas parasol. The others head to their beds. Afternoon siesta over Mr A groups us like a mother hen gathering her young. Walking (more like prodding others backside) sticks cut off from trees the estate walk starts off.
Parallel paths made by the wheels of a wagon, cut through the Arabica branching off in all directions. Balls of pepper, young and green, peep sheepishly from behind vines. Huge conifers bend matronly, over the coffee, providing shade. Crickets chirp as cameras click, suddenly going silent as we pass close to their hide-outs. Mr A and CEO G, deep in their own triumphs and worries of looking over coffee estates lead us through copses and grasslands till we reach a narrow mud path hanging over emerald paddy fields. Suddenly Mr A says we need to back track and leads us up another grassy slope, to a dilapidated structure, below which lie the estate deities, adorned by flowers and other votive offerings. A strange tranquillity descends on the soul, as hands are joined and silent prayers emanate from the devotees lips.
The walk continues, this time finally settling at the banks of a largish pond. Guava trees sprout from the muddy banks, fruit hanging waiting to turn ripe and be picked. An abandoned shed waits in anticipation for people during an unexpected downpour. A bench made of planks makes a good photo opportunity for the cameras accompanying the nature walkers. We continue and are almost back home as the auburn sloping roof comes into view.
Bath and other ablutions complete, it is time for the spirits to take over for the night. Bottles of varied hues and shapes appear, as does a dusty unused hookah. Poisons chosen, the hookah turned out to be a bummer and was quickly replaced by the ever dependable Gold Flake Kings.
A short précis of the eventful night could be written thus- pole dances, more imbibing of spirits, pulling down of pajamas, raunchy jokes, all round debauchery, et al.
The next morning found me with a chainsaw splicing the head. While the others played another round of Monopoly I preferred the comfort of my bed, resting the aching cerebrum. Lunch, this time starred a cashew rich ghee rice, ably supported by mutton fry and yellow tadka dal. The bed beckoned again and I followed like a moth to a flame. Hours were passing, and soon after a 'pick me up' for the previous night’s escapades and dinner, we were all packed and delivered to the bus stop.
As we wait for our bus a magical mist envelopes us, trees appear ghoul like, adding to the eeriness. A sudden feeling of indebtedness comes over me, a feeling of thank fullness to Hazrat Dada Hayat Mir Kalandhar, the Sufi mystic who noticed an uncharacteristic burst of activity in goats which consumed a particular seed. He returned to India with seven of these seeds snugly tucked in his robes and planted them in the Baba Budan Hills. The descendants of this strain were later transferred to other locations, including the Arabica through which we walked the previous evening. I close my eyes and the magic seeps in, quiet and peace reigns.
A neatly trimmed hedge with the board proclaiming the estate’s Scottish descent greets you at the gate. A rubbly path leads you down; over a rectangular strip of grass trimmed by the underside of the wagon; onto a wide area dropping you off at the rear entrance. Saddam, the “One Eyed Dalmatian” stands guard along with “Bingo the Canine Baring”. A whine escapes its throat, and it’s reassured of our credentials.
The sun smiles down on the red esplanade and matching mansard roof. Tea in one hand (bear in mind we are in a coffee estate), nicotine stick in the other, mundane talk happens. The call is heard and we flock to the breakfast table like the faith full. Rice rotis, chicken fry, a delectable fish curry and mutton gravy stare at you from behind covered plates and pots. Our own plates filled, liberal helpings of ghee heaped on to the rotis, we settle in for a journey where the taste buds are taken for a gentle spin much like on a coracle. Cells refurbished, we open the board, for a game of Monopoly. Freshly squeezed lime juice washes down the remnants of breakfast. As the others progress to build houses and hotels on Mayfair and Strand, money and sites mysteriously vanish from my portfolio, as mysteriously as a chilled beer landing in my hand.
Lunch was another cell bursting explosion of chicken biryani and other meaty dishes. Some of us retire to the esplanade conversing under an open canvas parasol. The others head to their beds. Afternoon siesta over Mr A groups us like a mother hen gathering her young. Walking (more like prodding others backside) sticks cut off from trees the estate walk starts off.
Parallel paths made by the wheels of a wagon, cut through the Arabica branching off in all directions. Balls of pepper, young and green, peep sheepishly from behind vines. Huge conifers bend matronly, over the coffee, providing shade. Crickets chirp as cameras click, suddenly going silent as we pass close to their hide-outs. Mr A and CEO G, deep in their own triumphs and worries of looking over coffee estates lead us through copses and grasslands till we reach a narrow mud path hanging over emerald paddy fields. Suddenly Mr A says we need to back track and leads us up another grassy slope, to a dilapidated structure, below which lie the estate deities, adorned by flowers and other votive offerings. A strange tranquillity descends on the soul, as hands are joined and silent prayers emanate from the devotees lips.
The walk continues, this time finally settling at the banks of a largish pond. Guava trees sprout from the muddy banks, fruit hanging waiting to turn ripe and be picked. An abandoned shed waits in anticipation for people during an unexpected downpour. A bench made of planks makes a good photo opportunity for the cameras accompanying the nature walkers. We continue and are almost back home as the auburn sloping roof comes into view.
Bath and other ablutions complete, it is time for the spirits to take over for the night. Bottles of varied hues and shapes appear, as does a dusty unused hookah. Poisons chosen, the hookah turned out to be a bummer and was quickly replaced by the ever dependable Gold Flake Kings.
A short précis of the eventful night could be written thus- pole dances, more imbibing of spirits, pulling down of pajamas, raunchy jokes, all round debauchery, et al.
The next morning found me with a chainsaw splicing the head. While the others played another round of Monopoly I preferred the comfort of my bed, resting the aching cerebrum. Lunch, this time starred a cashew rich ghee rice, ably supported by mutton fry and yellow tadka dal. The bed beckoned again and I followed like a moth to a flame. Hours were passing, and soon after a 'pick me up' for the previous night’s escapades and dinner, we were all packed and delivered to the bus stop.
As we wait for our bus a magical mist envelopes us, trees appear ghoul like, adding to the eeriness. A sudden feeling of indebtedness comes over me, a feeling of thank fullness to Hazrat Dada Hayat Mir Kalandhar, the Sufi mystic who noticed an uncharacteristic burst of activity in goats which consumed a particular seed. He returned to India with seven of these seeds snugly tucked in his robes and planted them in the Baba Budan Hills. The descendants of this strain were later transferred to other locations, including the Arabica through which we walked the previous evening. I close my eyes and the magic seeps in, quiet and peace reigns.
Promises
Half baked, never kept
Hypocrite you rant
Bastard and what not
Silent I shall remain
Time will come
When I fly the coop
Jailed till then
Beating blue funk
Drunk as a skunk
I will wander
Exploring ladder theories
And Gorky Parks
Dots and lines join us
Hemoglobulus fluids too
Antipathy I cannot offer
The truth will blow when you agnise
I am mine.
Hypocrite you rant
Bastard and what not
Silent I shall remain
Time will come
When I fly the coop
Jailed till then
Beating blue funk
Drunk as a skunk
I will wander
Exploring ladder theories
And Gorky Parks
Dots and lines join us
Hemoglobulus fluids too
Antipathy I cannot offer
The truth will blow when you agnise
I am mine.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Benevolence
On the way to Melkote last week, I saw a truck with a North Indian registration. On the look out for funny messages usually painted at the back of trucks, this particular one struck me for the owners/drivers benevolence-"Buri nazar wale, tera bhi bhala ho."
Also on the trip was a movie placement never heard of or thought of before. My biggest scoop so far...
Also on the trip was a movie placement never heard of or thought of before. My biggest scoop so far...
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