They lie by the roadside like fallen elephants. Hacked and brought down by crude tools - a flimsy rope, a hacksaw. Can I hear them moan? Those majestic trees. Once Bangalore's pride - now a mere nuisance in the path of 'development'. What beautiful living, breathing beings they were, giving us shade, peace and oxygen. How long does it take them to grow that big? Decades. Centuries. Three days to hack them. Go, do your math.
Road widening, metro lines, fly overs - buzz words in the din of progress. THe Bangalore of my summer vacations only in my mind now- cool , salubrious (a word I learnt early can only describe this city), unhurried. Now all hot, hurried and crass.
Someone said, the road to 'progress' has to be barren and tree less...and we all cheered in agreement. Our own Silicon Valley. Jewel in the IT crown.
I cry for Bangalore.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
40 and flitting
Everyday is a new day on Facebook. And a revisit to the past. Friends from long ago reconnect and behold memories come tumbling out. Strange how Facebook works just as well for greying 40 somethings like me as for my two teens! My friend list vies with my sons', crossing the landmark 100 recently. I am a social butterfly flitting in cyber space..
More 'adipose rich' than I remember, grey hair,wizened faces peer out of happy friendly picture frames. Father, mother, son, daughter in front of Niagra. Proud mother at sons graduation. Elizabeth George has become Liz Chabra. Time has clearly passed, roles lived and learnt ;peace made with life's limitations. No more rash dreams - reality it is. . Different journeys, same reality checks.
So Facebook is a good reminder of how time has flown by. Was anyone keeping track? But here we are again - scattered for a while, a few decades between us, sought each other out in cyber space and reconnected as if nothing happened in between.
More 'adipose rich' than I remember, grey hair,wizened faces peer out of happy friendly picture frames. Father, mother, son, daughter in front of Niagra. Proud mother at sons graduation. Elizabeth George has become Liz Chabra. Time has clearly passed, roles lived and learnt ;peace made with life's limitations. No more rash dreams - reality it is. . Different journeys, same reality checks.
So Facebook is a good reminder of how time has flown by. Was anyone keeping track? But here we are again - scattered for a while, a few decades between us, sought each other out in cyber space and reconnected as if nothing happened in between.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Signed, Inked, Delivered...
Feels a bit like Rip Van Winkle waking up after 20 years as I blog my thoughts after a gap of almost a year - cant believe its been that long since we moved . Masala sushi has been lying low, what with the sushi in my life yanked out and replaced by a whole lot of bhel puri and life spinning a full 360 into reality.
Today I had my say in the world's largest democracy, such as it is. India's 5 yearly Election Machinery. A lumbering clanging sum of rattling parts with bits and parts falling off but miraculously getting there each time! As my choice registered as a resounding beep couldnt help think - again and again- that the million Gods of India are always smiling over us wishing us well..
That we managed to appear on the electrol rolls in itself was a piece of divine serendepity. When my Other Half (never short on optimism) wormed patiently through haphazard lines to reach a disinterested Govt official who couldnt care less about franchise and any of that gobbeldy gook, he (Other Half) had lost all hope of ever being recognised as a legit member of the Great Indian Electorate. Weeks later when we heard nothing from anyone, hurting from the rejection, I decided to confront the officials about the omission.
To cut the chase I finally spotted our names , mispelt, misquoted on a dusty screen in a dusty corner of a - whats that - gym! Apparently I was not supposed to ignore the gym on the ground floor of the BBMP (Muncipal Office) where business gets regularly done among dumbells and dumb-lads, as if its the most normal thing to happen.
So there I am signed, inked and delivered, smug as a bug, marvelling from all angles, the ameobic blue blotch on my finger nail, which tells me without a doubt, that I am indeed a part of this mad, mad madness.
Today I had my say in the world's largest democracy, such as it is. India's 5 yearly Election Machinery. A lumbering clanging sum of rattling parts with bits and parts falling off but miraculously getting there each time! As my choice registered as a resounding beep couldnt help think - again and again- that the million Gods of India are always smiling over us wishing us well..
That we managed to appear on the electrol rolls in itself was a piece of divine serendepity. When my Other Half (never short on optimism) wormed patiently through haphazard lines to reach a disinterested Govt official who couldnt care less about franchise and any of that gobbeldy gook, he (Other Half) had lost all hope of ever being recognised as a legit member of the Great Indian Electorate. Weeks later when we heard nothing from anyone, hurting from the rejection, I decided to confront the officials about the omission.
To cut the chase I finally spotted our names , mispelt, misquoted on a dusty screen in a dusty corner of a - whats that - gym! Apparently I was not supposed to ignore the gym on the ground floor of the BBMP (Muncipal Office) where business gets regularly done among dumbells and dumb-lads, as if its the most normal thing to happen.
So there I am signed, inked and delivered, smug as a bug, marvelling from all angles, the ameobic blue blotch on my finger nail, which tells me without a doubt, that I am indeed a part of this mad, mad madness.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Hello India
For now I am the only freak around that says 'thank you'. Sometimes people dont know what to do with this strange sounding salvo aimed at them but most often its not that bad and I might even get a sheepish 'welcome' in reply. I remember explaining to my non-Indian friends at various points, how saying 'thank you' is not is not much of a routine Indian practice and could even be considered offensive in a context.
Thus folks, the journey to my re-Indianification' is well and truly underway. Almost 2 months since I kissed the earth on landing in motherland, everyday has been a process of re discovering my inner Indian - snoozing happily with all guards down for 7 years.
Yet coming back has meant coming to terms with zillion other discomforts that India challenges you with. Boredom is not a frequently experienced emotion with me here. Anger , frustration, irritation - yes. Boredom - no.
Bangalore - the city of my birth , and home to us now was a sleepy town with a cool climate and smell of ground coffee and jasmine in my memory. Never a Bombay in pulse it did posses a quiet glamour of its own. It was where leafy lanes were home to classy moustached retired generals walking their pure breeds for a crisp morning walk. Or something like that atleast.Until it became Indias pot holed Silicon Valley. The Bangalore I set foot now is a grossly disfigured one thats completely lost its way. Its crowded, bustling and has truly caught up with Mumbai's grime, squalor and maybe industriousness but none of its hardy work ethic.
Anyway, everyday is a journey, everyday a new truth to unlearn and accept. When I 'compare' (India vs rest of world) I am doomed.When I accept and own, I go with the flow. But it surely has tested every bit of my optimism and I wait for the day I attain total nirvana and leap happily over mounds of garbage thinking that the rest of the world does it this way too!
Alvida.
Thus folks, the journey to my re-Indianification' is well and truly underway. Almost 2 months since I kissed the earth on landing in motherland, everyday has been a process of re discovering my inner Indian - snoozing happily with all guards down for 7 years.
Living in India again, is liberating.Liberating that it is home, liberating not having to say thank you for every bally thing (that I do, is another matter) and having to use more than 3 words in a sentence (Tokyo days), liberating not having to complete sentences and getting understood instantly, liberating just to be able to give complex instructions with 'what if '/'if not' deviations thrown in and being understood without a fuss (Japan - the Land of Sequential Steps) , liberating just knowing my way around, what to say, what to do...
Yet coming back has meant coming to terms with zillion other discomforts that India challenges you with. Boredom is not a frequently experienced emotion with me here. Anger , frustration, irritation - yes. Boredom - no.
Bangalore - the city of my birth , and home to us now was a sleepy town with a cool climate and smell of ground coffee and jasmine in my memory. Never a Bombay in pulse it did posses a quiet glamour of its own. It was where leafy lanes were home to classy moustached retired generals walking their pure breeds for a crisp morning walk. Or something like that atleast.Until it became Indias pot holed Silicon Valley. The Bangalore I set foot now is a grossly disfigured one thats completely lost its way. Its crowded, bustling and has truly caught up with Mumbai's grime, squalor and maybe industriousness but none of its hardy work ethic.
Anyway, everyday is a journey, everyday a new truth to unlearn and accept. When I 'compare' (India vs rest of world) I am doomed.When I accept and own, I go with the flow. But it surely has tested every bit of my optimism and I wait for the day I attain total nirvana and leap happily over mounds of garbage thinking that the rest of the world does it this way too!
Alvida.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Sayonara
When you get used to parking attendants bowing to you (90 degrees) and polite men guiding you to safety at road blocks (with a bow) ....
When you routinely start seeing trash in your mind as 'burnable, 'non burnable' and 'recyclable'....
When you expect the world to be spotless and always run on time...
...its time to pack up and get real.
Japan's hushed orderliness spoils you into believing that the world has actually become a better place to live in. When you get out of it, the rest of the world seems like a cacophony of sounds and brash people who havent been taught any manners. Dangerous, when you know that someday you will be yanked out of this temporary Utopia and dumped into the real world.
After two lovely years in a place that gave me more than I expected, its time to move on and...well get real. And how. We get back to India next week and meet Life head on. Nothing couched there, nothing indirect and politeness is an inconvenient waste of time.
When you routinely start seeing trash in your mind as 'burnable, 'non burnable' and 'recyclable'....
When you expect the world to be spotless and always run on time...
...its time to pack up and get real.
Japan's hushed orderliness spoils you into believing that the world has actually become a better place to live in. When you get out of it, the rest of the world seems like a cacophony of sounds and brash people who havent been taught any manners. Dangerous, when you know that someday you will be yanked out of this temporary Utopia and dumped into the real world.
After two lovely years in a place that gave me more than I expected, its time to move on and...well get real. And how. We get back to India next week and meet Life head on. Nothing couched there, nothing indirect and politeness is an inconvenient waste of time.
Capturing Tokyo, I said in my first post, was like trying to catch a thousand different sensations in a bottle. In my two years maybe I did hold and understand some.Others I just soaked in without bothering to decipher.
I cant imagine anyone walking away unscathed from Japan. It is bound to change you , even if imperceptibly so. I know it has changed me. Taught me patience, given me clarity and helped me understand that speed is not the fastest way to get to your goal always- patience and perfection might get you there more soundly. It has tempered my spirit and taught me to respect even the tiniest details.
Maybe when my mind is being 'bheja fried' (battered) in India, I can escape to my 'inner Japan' to repair and restore in its noiseless calm. Maybe I'll carry that always with me - my own portable Inner Peace and maybe that can only be a Japanese thing!
Sayonara beautiful Japan.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Three stars
I've always felt like a voyeur in my 2 years of living in Azabu Juban - a well heeled part of Tokyo. I've gaped,gawked or plain stared at a world that I've never really felt part of (thank god) but ghoulishly watched its every motion from the outside. Each time I walk its streets I am convinced I am a side player in a celluloid drama with the beautiful star cast sashaying around for my benefit. My own personal theatre. I think I've always felt like a hippie in ragged denims who forgot to read the dress code at the bottom of the gilt edged card or more likely just didnt bother to keep up.
A walk down Keyakizaka or Roppongi Hills - both places with the maximun no of beautiful women per sq ft - can get surreal and disorienting. Christian Lacroix, Louis Vitton,Kate Spade...all quitely inhabit this street, while unselfconsciously gorgeous live mannequins clap their stiletto heels on the well tiled side walk.
The voyeur in me decides to push the limits. I walk into a shop with the air of someone who knows her Givenchy. Its a mens store. Glass cases house regular objects with not-so-regular prices. Wallet: 600 dollars; cigarette lighter : 400 bucks; can opener : 300 bally bucks ; the look on my face: priceless.I quicken my pace and in two steps I'm out of the shop into the hushed lobby where a quiet waterfall falls in muted tones, reminding me again that to be here means to embrace style with cultish devotion- even at a godly price. I passed that logic and headed back.
On my way back I pass a non descript grey building in one of the tiny lanes near my place. For the uninitiated it means nothing. But I know. Its 'Kanda' - a Michelin 3 star restaraunt, no less. It doesnt need boards or signs to announce itself. Gourmet regulars probably have a hotline with the chef to tell him they are coming. Its prices way out of orbit of regular wallets.
Tokyo is supposed to be a goumet capital. With the Japanese fetish for quality and style thats no surprise. Even I can tell. It has the most number of Michelin starred restaurants. Beating Paris, New York and London.
Whats a Michelin 3 star you ask? You dont deserve to live.
A walk down Keyakizaka or Roppongi Hills - both places with the maximun no of beautiful women per sq ft - can get surreal and disorienting. Christian Lacroix, Louis Vitton,Kate Spade...all quitely inhabit this street, while unselfconsciously gorgeous live mannequins clap their stiletto heels on the well tiled side walk.
The voyeur in me decides to push the limits. I walk into a shop with the air of someone who knows her Givenchy. Its a mens store. Glass cases house regular objects with not-so-regular prices. Wallet: 600 dollars; cigarette lighter : 400 bucks; can opener : 300 bally bucks ; the look on my face: priceless.I quicken my pace and in two steps I'm out of the shop into the hushed lobby where a quiet waterfall falls in muted tones, reminding me again that to be here means to embrace style with cultish devotion- even at a godly price. I passed that logic and headed back.
On my way back I pass a non descript grey building in one of the tiny lanes near my place. For the uninitiated it means nothing. But I know. Its 'Kanda' - a Michelin 3 star restaraunt, no less. It doesnt need boards or signs to announce itself. Gourmet regulars probably have a hotline with the chef to tell him they are coming. Its prices way out of orbit of regular wallets.
Tokyo is supposed to be a goumet capital. With the Japanese fetish for quality and style thats no surprise. Even I can tell. It has the most number of Michelin starred restaurants. Beating Paris, New York and London.
Whats a Michelin 3 star you ask? You dont deserve to live.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
To market, to market to buy a fat fish.....
A bit ironical when sworn vegetarians like us trudge to a fish market at 4 am in the morning! Thats exactly what we did last weekend - to Tokyo's Tsukiji (pronounced Skiji) Fish Market,bleary eyed on a cold March morning!! Curiosity piqued we just had to see the 'worlds most famous fish market' - if not the biggest or noisiest or filthiest.
Tsukiji is one of Tokyo's oldest fish markets where each morning tons of slithery fish are traded, bought and sold. Not surprising,considering the Japanese's love for fish -raw or mildly cooked, poisionous or not.
The buzz had begun at 4 am as we approached the market with Nakamura-san our guide for the morning. Nakamura-san worked as a salmon auctioneer years ago and he was the best man to guide us through Tsukiji's slushy maze.
Peak hour at Tsukiji. 4 am.Men deftly veered their mechanised buggy type trolleys loaded with chilled white cases through crowds of busy workers and wide eyed tourists like us yanked out of our beds. We leaped over pools of water , avoided getting knocked down by the buggies, avoided bumping into carts with more crates and gaped at as many sights our foggy 4 o clock eyes could take in.Nothing was familiar.
Before entering the main trading houses we made our ways through rows and rows of 'middlemen' shops for whom business had begun and a day of buying and selling lay ahead. To simplify the chain - 'middle men' buy fish off auctioneers from auction houses and sell their catch to restraunt owners and sushi chefs..
Big warehouse type halls housed rows and rows of fish of all variety - small,big, live, dead, slithering, still... all goods on the block for the day.Hoardes of these creatures in bubbling tubs of water, slithering about - octopus, puffer fish and other nameless ones.
But the piece de resistance or the stars of Tsukiji are really the tuna auctions which make for good entertainment. Before that the frozen tuna auctions had begun - huge lifeless blocks of icy tunas were lined up in a big hall painted with red paint numbers on their backs '1' 2, 3, 4... bold unequivocal strokes of a fish trader.....a man on the side with wet gum boots was mixing cans of red dribbly paint . Art flourished amidst gore;blood, red paint, sea water....all mingling happily in the gutters of Tsukiji. The tuna had tags telling us the fish's life story 'Guam', 'Australia' said the yellow tags - homelands where once these lifeless forms roamed. But now no time to moon....
Auctions were happening in small wooden rinks in one corner of the big warehouse. Buyers in blue jumpers with badges on their caps, small books with their short lists in their hand and a keen sense of fishonomics, were huddled in this rink, bidding silently - with just a slight wave of fingers (could well be strumming music) while the auctioneers rapidily rattled off numbers among other (presumably) important information. Business is brisk - one batch of tunas for a price, gone in a wink. Onto the next batch.
Then the crowning glory - the fresh tuna auctions. Would put an MTV rapper to shame. Each auctioneer jives to his own ryhthm - hopping up and down, swerving to the side, barking sounds - its all part of the serious business of tuna! We stood utterly amused and fascinated.
As we emerged from the cold wet insides of Tsukiji - our toes postively frozen- the day was breaking, the sky slightly flushed. It was 6 am. Middlemen proud with their day's buy were arranging them in rows. Nakamura-san whispered and showed us one grey distinguished man weilding a long samurai sword , deftly slicing through the innards of a huge fresh tuna. He was supposed to be a master in his trade. Patronised by well known sushi chefs. He attends auctions himself and now this - he trusts noone to do as good a job as himself.
By now sushi lovers were crowding outside their favorite sushi eateries - rows of them on Tsukiji's periphery. You cant get fresher than this! But we walked passed them, immune to the lure of juicy fillets. We were too busy locking away our memories of the fascinating drama that had unfolded before us - a well oiled, faultless machinery. Cogs within wheels each doing their bit to an invisible grand design honed over years. Millions of dollars of fish at stake.Zillion palates to satisfy.
Wrapped in our memories forever will be the jumping auctioneer, his wet gum boots bobbing to his funny rhythm and other surreal sights. All locked away under the already overcrowded 'Tokyo Memorable'.
For pictures check:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=31522&l=3ea84&id=673787336
Glitch! Glitch! Photos will be uploaded once things are sorted out!
Tsukiji is one of Tokyo's oldest fish markets where each morning tons of slithery fish are traded, bought and sold. Not surprising,considering the Japanese's love for fish -raw or mildly cooked, poisionous or not.
The buzz had begun at 4 am as we approached the market with Nakamura-san our guide for the morning. Nakamura-san worked as a salmon auctioneer years ago and he was the best man to guide us through Tsukiji's slushy maze.
Peak hour at Tsukiji. 4 am.Men deftly veered their mechanised buggy type trolleys loaded with chilled white cases through crowds of busy workers and wide eyed tourists like us yanked out of our beds. We leaped over pools of water , avoided getting knocked down by the buggies, avoided bumping into carts with more crates and gaped at as many sights our foggy 4 o clock eyes could take in.Nothing was familiar.
Before entering the main trading houses we made our ways through rows and rows of 'middlemen' shops for whom business had begun and a day of buying and selling lay ahead. To simplify the chain - 'middle men' buy fish off auctioneers from auction houses and sell their catch to restraunt owners and sushi chefs..
Big warehouse type halls housed rows and rows of fish of all variety - small,big, live, dead, slithering, still... all goods on the block for the day.Hoardes of these creatures in bubbling tubs of water, slithering about - octopus, puffer fish and other nameless ones.
But the piece de resistance or the stars of Tsukiji are really the tuna auctions which make for good entertainment. Before that the frozen tuna auctions had begun - huge lifeless blocks of icy tunas were lined up in a big hall painted with red paint numbers on their backs '1' 2, 3, 4... bold unequivocal strokes of a fish trader.....a man on the side with wet gum boots was mixing cans of red dribbly paint . Art flourished amidst gore;blood, red paint, sea water....all mingling happily in the gutters of Tsukiji. The tuna had tags telling us the fish's life story 'Guam', 'Australia' said the yellow tags - homelands where once these lifeless forms roamed. But now no time to moon....
Auctions were happening in small wooden rinks in one corner of the big warehouse. Buyers in blue jumpers with badges on their caps, small books with their short lists in their hand and a keen sense of fishonomics, were huddled in this rink, bidding silently - with just a slight wave of fingers (could well be strumming music) while the auctioneers rapidily rattled off numbers among other (presumably) important information. Business is brisk - one batch of tunas for a price, gone in a wink. Onto the next batch.
Then the crowning glory - the fresh tuna auctions. Would put an MTV rapper to shame. Each auctioneer jives to his own ryhthm - hopping up and down, swerving to the side, barking sounds - its all part of the serious business of tuna! We stood utterly amused and fascinated.
As we emerged from the cold wet insides of Tsukiji - our toes postively frozen- the day was breaking, the sky slightly flushed. It was 6 am. Middlemen proud with their day's buy were arranging them in rows. Nakamura-san whispered and showed us one grey distinguished man weilding a long samurai sword , deftly slicing through the innards of a huge fresh tuna. He was supposed to be a master in his trade. Patronised by well known sushi chefs. He attends auctions himself and now this - he trusts noone to do as good a job as himself.
By now sushi lovers were crowding outside their favorite sushi eateries - rows of them on Tsukiji's periphery. You cant get fresher than this! But we walked passed them, immune to the lure of juicy fillets. We were too busy locking away our memories of the fascinating drama that had unfolded before us - a well oiled, faultless machinery. Cogs within wheels each doing their bit to an invisible grand design honed over years. Millions of dollars of fish at stake.Zillion palates to satisfy.
Wrapped in our memories forever will be the jumping auctioneer, his wet gum boots bobbing to his funny rhythm and other surreal sights. All locked away under the already overcrowded 'Tokyo Memorable'.
For pictures check:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=31522&l=3ea84&id=673787336
Glitch! Glitch! Photos will be uploaded once things are sorted out!
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