Wedding Spread

Went to a wedding today. One of those opulent ones where they serve 400,000 thousand dishes in 0.000002 kg quantities. It all adds up though. But I was feeling gastronomically confused when I had to do a bit of “Match-the-columns” type exercise to figure out what side dish goes with the dosa, roti, naan, idiappam, sambar rice and green rice (it was green. thats all I know)

Off late, weddings seem to have become mathematical endeavours in the calculation of the Maximum Common Denominator. Unlike the better known LCD, MCD is the term to describe the futile exercise of trying to satisfy everybody.

Saree state of affairs

Took my wife out for saree shopping today. I know. I know. Well-worn cliches come to mind. So i’ll not give them too much ink..um..type.

A guy’s saree shopping philosophy is generally

“Enter, pick, buy, all in 10 minutes or less”

while a girl’s method is

While (anyShopsLeftInCity() )
{
GuysMethodInSlowMotion();
}

But since I am a good, understanding husband and all, I vowed to keep quiet and not make subtle hints about the upcoming ice age or remark about how the shop walls were geologically changing from igneous to sedimentary rocks. The first “Hmm..looks nice” saree arrived about 10 minutes after we stepped in. Pleasant surprise. I sagely offered my agreement to the choice. The saree was absolutely drop dead, mindblowingly and aesthetically gorgeous, which is obviously a cue for her to say “Do you have more colours in this pattern?”

She did not. 5 minutes later, we were done. We had visited one shop, saw less than 10 sarees, and actually bought one in under 20 minutes. Cliches, as the saying goes, aren’t worth their weight in lithium (leave alone gold)

To the M.O.R.O.N.I.C, an open letter

An open letter to the Moral Officers Rigorously Overseeing & Nurturing Indian Culture.

Dear brothers of the Holy Monkey Brigade  and soldiers of the Army of the Marijuana God,

Your crusade (no wait..jihad..no wait..um..er..fight) against the corruption of shudh ghee indian culture by the animal fat of the west gives me a lot of inspiration. I sit at home, peacefully consuming Ekta Kapoor serials while you fight in the trenches to keep FTV and other immoral influences at bay of bengal. I have also cancelled my membership to the “I Love Bal Thackeray” community on Orkut because Orkut is Ravana’s garden and our metaphorical Indian cultural Sita is being held hostage there.

But I do realize that the battle is gruelling. Like Leonidas Dubya Bush fighting the Persian Ahmadinejad’s wicked army in the movie 300, I realize that it takes every citizen’s support in this ethnic (no wait…culture) cleansing process. So I have decided to do my part in seeking out insidious western immoral influences and bring them to your notice.

I heard a 3 year old kid (God save us all) singing this nursery rhyme. Oh fie upon the disrobed Nalli saree of Draupadi, the West is trying to secretly teach our 3 year olds sex education through nursery rhymes. I can’t even bear to type some of the words. They shame me to the bottom of the ghee tava, where it’s all brown and crispy.

Ding Dong Bell

(expletive deleted)’s in the well

Who put it in

Little Tommy thin

Who pulled it out

Little Tommy stout.

Oh defenders of our culture, the West is trying to teach our kids that Dong (American slang for male reproductive organ), in a state of vibration (bell), when the female reproductive organ is ready (“well”), needs to be put in. It even teaches them that it is “thin” in the beginning, and “stout” towards the end. My outrage knows no bounds .

You have done our country proud in past here and here. I urge you to take strong action in this serious matter. Our children cannot and must not learn about sex till their Suhaag raat (First night).

Thank you

A Concerned Citizen

The Neighbour’s Labrador

Our neighbour owns a labrador that’s inappropriately named Leo. Drool or or a more tamizh-like “Jollu” would have fit him better. He is a hyperactive saliva production machine and a serious flood threat to the neighbourhood.

The sad thing is that his owners keep him tied up with a rope whose length is comparable to the microscopic distances that trigger nuclear fusion. All day long. He spends the entire day giving those sad, plaintive looks only Labradors can, at everybody who passes by. When he barks, the subtitles read “Please take me out for a walk”.

So we decided to do this good samaritan thing by taking him out for walks in the night. Just one problem. He chooses to express his gratitude by an aggressive and lavish application (by a combination of snorting, drooling and spurting)  of digestive enzymes. He also pulls on his leash with forces that threaten to violate Newton’s third law. And he does not like being tied back at the end of the walk.

Mr Michael Moore is ignoring my country

I recently saw Sicko, by Michael Moore and I was completely appalled by his assertion that France and Britain have really good universal health care.

Mr Moore, my indian blood is boiling to 488.3 degrees celsius at your complete and utter ignorance of the universalness of Indian healthcare. While France seems to make do with just Allopathy, India offers Homoeopathy, Siddha, Ayurveda, Neemveda (shaking neem leaves to scare bacteria away) and Chantveda (the scientific use of proper sanksrit pronunciation to make viruses obey).

Do the french have a clue about the vicious tricks played by gas? Do the french understand the rare disease contracted by the soliders who ate eggs at Iwo Jima? And can the French ger childrens for people who become marriage? We even cut costs by dispensing with the whole pathology thingie. Our doctors simply check pulse (and occasionally even pulese) and dole out da drugs.

Mr Moore, India dekho aur Sicko.

ps: Thanks to Sangeetha, my sis-in-law, for the image.

Technorati Tags: Michael Moore, Sicko, India, Healthcare

Carnatic Transliterations

Deep apologies to all those who are not from South India and do not have a smidgen of interest in Carnatic music. If you belong to that category, this post will probably not make any sense. But it has been running through my mind for a while and I just had to put it down.

Carnatic music was drilled into me for almost 15 years of my life. More than the music itself, the need to preserve it in its pristine traditional glory was hammered into my head using a combination of Melakartha ragas and 9-inch nails. Therefore, it is my solemn duty as a musical anarchist to do some serious bad-ass jalsa and blasphemous jilpa of some of the most popular carnatic numbers of our times. I just think Carnatic music needs to get a sense of humour.

Having been Tamil-illiterate for most of my childhood, my music notebook was entirely written in English. Sampler:

G..R…S..S..N…P…R…S…R…SNSR

Vaataapi Ganapathim Bhaje…hum

So imagine this scene in 1690. A British East India company musicologist happens to discover a wormhole into the future and chances upon my music notebook. Since it’s written in English, he will most certainly assume that the words are simply quaint local misspellings of the Queen’s language and thus I present to you,

The East India Company Carnatic Songbook.

Raga: Hamsadhwani

Composer: Mootusoowammy Deekshirter

What a big gun apart him budge eh? Hmm?

War an’ ah, some were uh..part him, shriek!

Raga: Hindolam

Composer: Tiago Roger

Some much a war ago man uh..

Sad who grr…

Sir a sop joe apall luck all liter wig your….

Raga:Abhogi

Composer: Gopaulachrisna Barretty

Sub-aww..particle

Where you dive’em

Some Anne amour cool maa…

Raga:Karaharapriya

Composer: Tiago Roger

Chuck any Roger..

Mar Game oooh..’n'docker

Technorati Tags: Music, Carnatic, Transliteration, East India Company

New Yorker

On the junction of Nungambakkam road and Mount road, across from the Brain Drain Black Hole (US Consulate), there is a vegetarian restaurant named New Yorker. Uh? My reaction exactly when I was informed of the complete lack of fauna on the menu. But truth be told, New Yorker has one of the most diverse and eclectic vegetarian menus on offer in Chennai.

There are 2 kinds of vegetarian food in the world.

The first kind is Vegetarienne Au Naturelle, where greenery is uprooted from the forests and fields, mildly warmed and served on a plate. Bovines and health conscious americans tend to prefer this kind.

The second kind is salted to hurt, spiced to kill and cooked to death. In short, Indian vegetarian food.

New Yorker serves food of the second kind, with a slight difference. It’s Indian food garnished with globalized nomenclature. Here is a sampler:

Mexican Pasta Salad

New Yorker Jain Assorted Platter

Jain Pasta Delight

What was missing however, was a menu card that could spin fantastic stories about the origins of these dishes. I am not referring to the lame 5-star method of using “Delectable Succulently Steamed Flavourful Rice Pancakes” to describe idlis. I am talking about tales, myths and dreamscapes describing something as exotic as a New Yorker Special Mexican Jain Fajita Sizzler.

This is what I am looking for

 It was the aftermath of the First Intifada, when Sheikh Al Bukhari migrated to Guadalajara and married Gloria Hernandez, a girl who worked in a roadside Burrito stall. It was in that heat of romance, in that melting pot of hearts, that the fiery jalapeno married the humble middle-eastern chickpea to concoct the delectable: 

Mexican Falafel                                                                    Rs 99

Legend has it that Shri Banwari Lal Jain, a pawn broker operating in Lower Manhattan was caught by his wife doing hanky-panky with their Mexican housemaid Chiquita. A household fight broke out and nachos, beans and garam masala were used as weapons by the protagonists. The proprietor of New Yorker happened to witness this sizzling display of domestic fireworks and convinced the warring parties to stop a while, while he notes down the amounts of ingredients used in the fight. He comes back to Chennai and serves, for your culinary pleasure:

New Yorker Special Mexican Jain Fajita Sizzler       Rs 139

Ok. 7/11 for the food. 5/9 for the ambience.

For the geographically challenged:

Click here to read my other Chennai restaurant reviews. If you prefer traditional, sane, useful and informative reviews, click here

Technorati Tags: Food, Chennai, Restautant, Review, New Yorker

Desipunditted

Ok. I got desipunditted. Junta tells me that it is the Indian equivalent of getting dugg. So do I get a milk chocolate bar as prize? Personal preference – Fruit and Nuts. If Cadbury, please double check for worms. Advanced Tanks and Rearguards.

Update: Reminded by good wife not to demand chocolates, instead, say full thanks to all appreciative comments. Ok. Full Thanks.

Eye See Eye See Blood

I don’t want Shreya wallpapers or ringtones from Sivaji for my mobile phone. I also don’t want personal loans of any size, shape and currency. I am also completely uninterested in health insurance.

But ICICI, ABN AMRO, HDFC, HSBC and Airtel just don’t seem to get it.

I could spam them from their “email us” link but I won’t do that because Gandhi told us that an eye for an eye will leave us with two eyes. I could tell their call center “Hold one second” and put the phone next to a speaker playing “You are my Chikken Fraii”, but I won’t do that because Bappi Lahiri’s music does not deserve to be trivialized thus. I could also tell them “I don’t want a personal loan, but I know somebody who does” and pass the phone to the beggar who operates outside the temple in Besant Nagar, but that would be a complete waste of the beggar’s time.

But now, I hear that some recovery goons from ICICI beat up a loan-defaulter to death. That is not funny.

ICICI, I am done with you. I tolerated your spam, but this is blood. I am going to stop using your card till my balance is cleared and then, I am going to cancel it.

Technorati Tags: ICICI, Death, Spam

Remembrances

The flu has me. For some reason, it tends to keeps jalsa at bay. Thus the strange diversions into deathly matters.

My grandmother (yes, the curious one) has this macabre daily habit of reading the Hindu obituaries column. She scans the list for familiar names and implores my dad to call the bereaved family even if they happen to be relatives as distant as the Andromeda galaxy. Not one to miss social graces even at the age of 90.

I took a look at today’s column and made a list of the phrases Chennai uses to describe death.

died 

passed away

expired

attained Sivaloka Praapthi

attained Vaikunta Praapthi

reached heavenly abode

attained the Lotus feet of Sri <insert name>

attained Acharyan Thiruvadi

slept in Jesus

It’s all about telling stories. We mythologize our births, our lives and our deaths. Our language reflects our story-telling heritage. We don’t just die. We simply move on to another, even more exciting adventure. In the world of imagination, Death is dead.

Technorati Tags: Mythology, Death, Story