Perfume - The Story Of A Murderer

Beauty is a very powerful force. It drives men and women to heights and feats far above their normal fill of dexterity. It fills the human spirit like a burgeoning balloon, lifting it up into the vast blue evanescent skies. Perhaps so it is to be. And for this reason is it termed God! Truth, Beauty and Bliss, the ancient scriptures intone in their gloriously pristine voices. For at the heart of all creation there is a beauty so cruel yet so divine, that had tempted the very source of beauty into this magnificent ever flourishing swirl of creation ... rushing on its speeding heels to absolute death, like the storm dashing to taste its stilling death at the bosom of the towering mountains of the north. But till the time so chooses to come to pass, the havoc of beauty will rule over all our lives. The dying embers that may be left behind glowing their last fading smiles may be good ... and sometimes ... may not be.

Often when confronted with such an empowering force, beauty, I used to wonder what is wrong in worshiping her, for she is the very heart of her creator. We do posses the answers to some of the deepest questions that we find looming over our lives. And all that it takes to bring those answers to light would be an outwardly inconsequential event. It might be a line we read in a book or a word spoken by someone or a note of music that we chance hear ... anything. For me, today, it was a movie. I would never recommend this movie to people whom I love, for I care for them. But I would beg of those in whom I see a light, to savor this film, for I care for them ... too. It is a story of a gifted soul... a soul who is the drunken slave of beauty ... the beauty of smell. So magnetized he is by the enchantment of perfumes... that he fails to honor the true consort of beauty, truth. A movie, that highlight in mystical light that when beauty abandons truth, the bliss there from is but in vanity and would soon fade like a mocking perfume, whose laughter would echo in the blinded darkness of hollow acts.

Watch this movie at your own peril.

Perfume - The Story Of A Murderer

Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Insane Galaxy

After a pretty long unexplained hiatus it feels good to be back. There are times in our lives that are so intense that we choose to snap all links and switch off from the rest of the world, with just the bare minimum left in place. Well ... it is more like an assumed hibernation, waiting for that damn blizzard or winter to die down or wear itself out, melt away or thaw. Gosh! I feel bad to turn this post into a spiritually introspective soliloquy. Hmmm.... well out of the blue I chose to fly against the sane flock, migrating to a colder place as winter sets in, I decided to move to the UK. I simply had to yield to that incessant, pressing, itching, bursting thrust in me. Got my visa, quit my decent job, left my loving family, flew out of my dearest motherland, and landed as a unemployed vagabond in the city of London, greeted by darkening clouds and peppering rain.

For over a month and a little more, I went blip! Missing from the radars of friends and relatives alike. Normally I am not a person of impulses or the esoteric tantric largely bonded towards unexplained mysteries. But this time, abandoning all reason and sound logic, I heeded to some kind of instinctive sixth sense urging. The past 2 months have been extremely intense, spiritually cleansing and sensibly the most needed jerk to get me back into the shoes of an eternal hitch hiker ever willing to explore newer territories, fortes and pastures. But as most changes or jerks it has not been an easy one! Nevertheless, it was worth it. It has left me richer in character and more sound and complete as a person. Well ... to cut the long story short (every story that I ever write is so damn long!)...here I am once again with renewed energy and buoying with a spirit of adventure, in a new land, with a new job, amidst new people. Hmmm.... I wanted to write more ... but Hell! My lessons are mine and I don’t want to sound like a withering Mosses coming down Mt. Sinai to discourse on the stone tables in his hand. So, from Namma Chennai to the city of bloody rain, London.

A Refreshing Dip in the Flowery Drum

Sunny Sunday afternoons would normally see us feed like disdainful sophisticated creatures of elegant art at a rather sumptuous lunch at home; and then dash into the darkened A/C’ed room to fall flat like descendants of the pre historic lizard family, to wallow the rest of the afternoon in snore ridden short naps. Thanks to the bloody scorching sun for that delightful tropical Chennai climate which gifts anyone who so wishes in his/her right mind the most beautiful of all tans, afternoon siestas always seem to be the safest options that we are left with. However, this was one of those Sundays when dad turned on his adventure switch. Of course he had done his bit of the home work in snooping around eateries in and around his place of work. So there we were ... dressed in freshly pressed clothes and rightly perfumed countenances, jumping into our precious four wheeled chariot, driving away to a never before visited promising place that had some how managed to capture my father’s fancy. (Actually there are way too many things that manage to catch my father’s fancy.)

Up and down the Patheon road bridge, spinning around in the middle of nowhere we landed in the supposed parking lot of Prince Plaza. Found memories of vibrant childhood excursions on “Fountain Plaza - Alsa Mall - Prince Plaza” round trips flooded my mind. Wedging the car into an empty slot that we chanced pounced upon; we walked briskly like people of purpose. Riding the elevator to the second floor, we found ourselves being welcomed by the aroma of a smooth blend of Chinese spices. So ... in we walked, into Flower Drum, a vegetarian Chinese restaurant. With dim lit, well spaced and tastefully done interiors; the restaurant was truly inviting. Gladly and quietly we slipped into our comfortable seats. The soft chinky music and a well mannered waiter and above all a quite and sparsely populated surrounding were all that we could ask for. Even before we tasted a spoonful of the food that would soon be served, we could have fallen on our knees and done a Maya styled worship of thanks for such a delightful first impression.

Well we were there for food ... so cutting short all the fuss and getting to the heart of it all, we suppressed the tears of joy that threatened to flood our eyes and scanned the menu cards that we were presented with. There were some really exotic sounding items on the listing. We ordered for some ginger and jade soup to go with crisp fried minced vegetable balls and honey dabbed cauliflower (or was it baby corn?) Manchurian kind of starters. Sipping and nibbling, warning ourselves not to guzzle and gorge like pigs, we ordered for a main course of Kwe-theya (ok .. at least that the way the pronounce it ... flat Thai noodles), spicy Hao Hao mixed vegetable gravy, some rice based dish and a couple of delightfully exciting dishes which had names that could never be pronounced by a true south Indian. Nodding and passing meaningful glances of approval at every mouthful, unanimously we graded the restaurant a full 5 out of 5. Sadly most Chinese restaurants think that sinking their dishes in soya sauce and dousing them with Ajinomotto would fool their customers into thinking that they were eating out of the kitchen of slit eyed chinky people living across the North-Eastern boundaries. Sharply in contract, the food at Flower Drum had a very refinely acuated taste that effortlessly transports you to the foggy foot hills of a wintry Chinese rice field.


Getting back to the table, we ran our finger through the menu card to satiate that naughty sweet tooth in us. Hmm.... I would have loved to miss this part of the recount, for the desserts were not as good as the soups, starters, dimsums or satays. We had ice Katchang and two leeche and peach based desserts. We didn’t mind that however, for on the whole the dining experience was rewarding in itself. Snapping a few pictures over spoonfuls of ice creams, promising to make another visit when my brother gets home, we thanked the polite guy who waited on us and crawled out belly full. Another exquisite feather on a foodie’s hat, Flower Drum!

The Family Sin

Daily news letters from the Men’s Health, 45 minutes at the gym at the crack of dawn, and a very strict luncheon diet of fresh salad. I am an obnoxious health freak. Often my mother would, if allowed, smash the pot of meticulously baked/fried/marinated cheese based European delicacy right into my face, when I make those sordid blood boiling home-food-is-to-carb-n-fat-ridden speech to a qualified dietitian cum pro health care personnel cum out-of-the-world cook, mom. It is but very difficult to shake of the suspicion of my mother slipping in spoonfuls of ghee or well hidden/blended thick shreds of herbed cheese, into otherwise harmless simple home made dinner. Thanks to the weakness for sinful addictive fat glorifying Italian dishes that runs in the family, every other occasion where all the members of a normally disoriented family (ours of course!) choose to decorate the dining table with their respective august presence; there is this unanimous call for an fav Italian or white sauce related dish (If my grandmother was still alive she would have run around in circles spelling a hideous curse and bump us all on the head with her choice frying pan.)

Given the fact that mom is a great cook (no ... I don’t mean the kind of son-mother emotion that spells charred spoiled hapless food made divine by motherly love. Mom has in the past appeared as a highly qualified judge at many cooking competitions.) and father a chef and maestro of south Indian and continental gourmet food; extra pounds have found their way, hands down, around other wise chiseled hips and callipygian features. In short good food is always at an arms length. So, when such a gluttonous family decides to grace unique and something-different kinda restaurants; where do they go???

I don’t want to turn this into another painfully long account of our explorative adventure into the heart of Chennai, a city sadly cloistered with many idly-sambar-coffee eat outs. I shall promise myself to write in a more proper sequence, elucidating in my well appreciated erudite style (a man needs some amount of self motivation you see ...) the numerous houses of foodied experience we have had over the past few months. Adios for now.

A Story in Stone

Come on. That’s more than a man can ever take. Around 10-15 mails a day talking about the glory of blogging and two trips filled with colorful snaps waiting to be written about and uploaded, screaming into my face every time I open my comp. So here I go … space man Spiff … on his ship exploring land, sea and air …. Blip, blip, blip with my radars going hay wire … Hmmm… perfectionist, as I am most often termed, lemme put things in a more chronological order.

Towards the fag end of another weary year 2007, when people at home had enough of looking at the same faces and brawling over the same topics, we decided that we needed a God damn break!... we were to do the thing that we never thought we ever would … go on a family vacation. The word was out. Father, mother, son and daughter had their mean monkey minds scuttling helter skelter trying to choose the best holiday spot. Dancing gleeful images of sunny golden sanded shores of bright blue beaches scored with gracefully swaying coconut tress peppered my minds 70 mm screen. Then all of a sudden there was this earth quake which ripped apart my iMax theater in which I sat dreaming of Casino Royale- styled vacations. My father and mother in unison expressed their deep felt, unfulfilled penchant desire of visiting the temples and places of Saints of Maharashtra. Swallowing hard I smiled politely and exclaimed what a wonderful idea it was. Over the following weeks … a couple of unforeseen happenings and the hand of merciful God and his companion fate decided to play the game mean. So our trip to Maharashtra got cancelled due to the non availability of train tickets …. Sigh … now what? The relief and pleasure of not going through a forced trip is one thing … while on the other hand, to see the dejection on the face of your sweet mom and dad is another. (Believe me I AM a good boy.)

As things would have it, Debo had come down to Chennai for a days’ stop over, amidst all that rocket launching and PhD work he had been busy with. There at home in the course of an after lunch chit chat he pulled out his memory stick to show all of us his recent pics snapped at an office trip that he had gone on to Bellur, Halibedu and Shravanabelagola ….blogh, blogh, blogh … my tongue got knotted … hold on a sec .. lemme untie it. It was spectacular … the scenery, the splendor of the temple carvings … at once we asked him how far these places were from Chennai. Assuring us that it is very close to Bangalore and that they can be covered in a days’ time (perhaps if we traveled on ISRO’s rockets), he urged us to go on a VACATION!!! The ball was set rolling once again. Spirited and over excited, the next few days saw us on meticulous preparation for the Bellur-Halibedu trip.

After an unpleasant last seat bus journey to B’lore and another rather pleasant day at Kadugodi, we were on a cab towards Bellur. We had estimated that it would be 4 hours before we got there. However, kinder souls who spoke to us put it in milder terms the fact that a trip from B’lore to Bellur will be just a wee bit strenuous. It was around 5:30 am that we started. Excited about the greenery that would accost our hungry eyes; we fell silent … and slowly slipped into our respective timely slumber. Shuffling in and out of my short naps I noticed that our driver lost his way and found it too adding another extra hour and half to our trip. The dawn broke and we left the city behind … and yet there was no greenery. All that the trip had to present was one long winding red mud cloud that followed us everywhere we went and a sun that chose to shine brighter on that day. Stifled by heat (despite the continued snore of a rumbling A/C) and thrown off our nerves by the fact that our time scale estimates of the journey had turned out to be grossly wrong, we cursed every single being who invaded our discussion topics …Approximately, close to 12:30 we landed at Bellur. The place by itself was not very impressive. Like any other haughty tourist flaunting their dark sunglasses and glistening cameras, we walked up the temple stairs and through its massive entrance. Right there a few steps within the premises of the temple we had to make another important decision; whether to hire a guide or not … after a few seconds of family brain storming we decided we would go about exploring the place on our own, at our own sweet pace… without the aid of an guide’s broken English and crafted-to-excite descriptions of the sculpture and history.

We had no idea of what was in stock for us. We spent about half an hour at the entrance to the first enclosure marveling at the quality of the carvings that adorned the temple’s base walls. Walking further up the steps into the sanctum sanctorium, we were welcomed by dark walls of finely sculpted figures and massive pillars that wore … believe me, its not a joke … laces and brocades through which one could pass his/her hand… all chiseled out of one single stone. The whole temple was like an enchanted dream from the royal past of a mystical kingdom. As you stand at the center of the temple with the four corners offering exquisite sculptures of dancing damsels in bovine settings, and close your eyes; you would feel transported into a beautiful story that the temple resonated.

From doorway to doorway we went, scaling wall after wall of intricate carvings. Every patch of the wall had a scene from an epic to narrate. War, dance, joy, coronations, miracles, descents, accents, birth, death ….Thanks to the Canon digicam that we sported, we clicked relentlessly at every nook and corner of the temple. We literally captured every inch of the temple on stills. How true it is … a thing of beauty is a joy for ever. When we come across a thing of such beauty our soul effortlessly surrenders to it. It made us wonder, if an object captivates so much of beauty, then how much more beautiful would the heart of it’s’ creator be? We would have spent the entire day ...nay … perhaps a couple of days, admiring the out-of-the-world works of art had we had the time. Just finding enough time to slip a sheet of news papers beneath the magical pillar that till date is suspended in air, we dashed out bundling into our waiting cab and set rolling towards Halibedu.

Spirited by our visit to the Bellur temple, we were briefed on the glory of what awaited us at Halibedu. Now … I must stop my self. I am running out of expressions. Halibedu was no less in magnificence or beauty. It was in the afternoon and the sunlight added a thousand kaleidoscopic patches of light, reflection and shadows, making the entire experience ethereal. Despite the mindless irrational scribbling proclaiming pastime love sports of pee brained road side Romeos, the carvings and idols wore the same …. shall we say … eerie shroud??? Because the sculptures here were more true to life. The smiles and smirks on the faces of the idols were more “reaching out”. It made me think, perhaps when the sun went down and the temple gates closed for the visitors, these idols and sculpture would come to life and relive the past of a long forgotten era.

Praising myself for having been thoughtful of clearing enough space on my memory card, we snapped at as much of the temple as we could before the grumble in our stomachs got louder than the chatter of the tourists around us. Slowly and very reluctantly we shuffled out of the temple towards our waiting cab. It was one of the most memorable holidays in our lives. The painful journey was worth its bit. Often in my school and college days I would sit in a silent corner of the library gaping in wonder at the heavenly statues of Rome and Italy. But this day’s visit added pride to my heart. So much of beauty in my own land, and all the while I have marveled at the creations across the seas! There certainly is more to be seen; more than the brief span of my earthly sojourn would permit. But be it as it may, this little serving would suffice, for it overflows like a spilling goblet of beauty.