Coming back ... Feeling Better.

I feel like a soulless casual fling my blog once had, someone in the past who was fun and colorful but was always meant to be forgotten; to be thought of as a fast fading memory that you went to on desperately lonely evenings. That heartless prick that left you at a sharp turn of an argument and never came back.

It is like that mail you were to write or the phone call you should have made a long time ago, but now that you’ve put it off this long it’s become that much harder to get to it. Sometimes, you just don’t want to rationalize and reason over things, you just want to let them happen without having to decapitate them with reasoning.

It is great to be back! I’ve no clue how long I’ll last this time around. But hey, who cares. 

Holiday in Nice - Remaining Bits

As the sovereign crown prince of procrastination I herby proceed to fill in my loved ones on the remaining juicy bits of my Nice holiday, without much of that usual fuss about being the lazy butt. There is nothing much I could do about it all these years. Perhaps, it is an essential element in my chemical makeup, the additional element - Laziness (Lz).

As the husky golden sun rose over the glassy blue waters of the sea, we stirred in our snore ridden disturbed sleeps. All our meticulous plans of making it sharp on time to the station to take our train to Cannes were dashed. With boozy heavy sleep still strapping us down to our beds, we argued in muffled tones as to who is to have bath first. Well … eventually we did get up and get dressed in appropriate sunny holiday clothes. With a classy looking camera and a few of us with light backpacks and a silly smile over our faces we left home to take a bus to the station. With two other work colleagues of Bhakta joining us we boarded the train that sped towards Cannes.

We weren’t quite clear on what we expected to see in Cannes. I for one was hoping to catch a glimpse of Mr. & Mrs. Pitt trotting the red carpet. Cheeky of me! But honestly we weren’t too concerned about ogling over celebrities. Like the cheerful crowd there, we just wanted to have our fair share of sea side fun.

Walking out of the station at Cannes, we filed into a nearby information centre to arm ourselves with maps and schedules for various events. After much careful speculation we came to the unanimous decision that we should spend a good hour aimlessly walking the narrow shaded streets, squeezed out on both side by little shops bursting with their wares. And so we did. Coolers in place and cameras clicking at every object that vaguely resembled anything of an art or antiquity, we walked the tourist strut. It really was a funny feeling. With every snap we clicked we felt that we were capturing a bit of the magic that the place had to offer, so that we could at some later date open up these pictures and conjure up that enchantment all over again. Perhaps this was the best decision we made during this trip, to roam the quaint city with no purpose in mind, with nothing to rush us, just taking in every piece of the wonder that the place is, at our own relaxed pace.

Covering a few historical places, we heeded to the calls of our belly-quakes. We went hunting for a traditional French eat out where we could sit at a large table on the side walk, under shades of a generous canopy of balconies and open windows with criss-crossing clothes lines above, watching expert violin and accordion playing beggars. (Well… that isn’t fair. I can’t call them beggars, though badly provided for; they were richly endowed with the beautiful art of music.) For once I am going to skip describing the food we had in detail. Been rebuked enough over it by my sis! The food was simply perfect. And that’s all am going to say about it.

Paying the lady who waited on us, we thanked her and made our way towards the sea shore. For some reason despite the heavy food we had, some of the guys were aching for a cup of coffee!!!

So we found a coffee shop just by the sands beneath a spares looking tree. As some of us sipped on hot cups of coffee under a blistering sun, the remaining sane members of our group, looking out into the tantalizing bright blue waters and the hoards of sun bathing vacationers, promised ourselves that we would hit the waters next. We then walked skirting the shore looking for the right patch of golden sands where we could set our belongings down and get dressed for the waters. Soon finding the right spot we got into the waters. It was blissful. Perfectly cool for the warm sun. For the first time, I managed to swim a couple of yards in the sea! Never thought I would ever be able to do that.

Once we had had enough fooling around we decided we should do justice for having come this far to get wet in salty water and sullied in dirty mud. We had to join the mad crowd in peering at the celebs as they drove past in sleek black sedans. So we quickly dried ourselves and got dressed and joint the gongoozling empty brained open jawed crazy crowd clicking frantically with their cams. There were many picture perfect people we stood staring at. A few we caught on stills too. Just so that we have a few snaps that were proof enough for us to tell people back at home that we were at the film festival.

We decided to head back home as the sun went down. Bhakta promised us that dinner would be better at the town square in Nice. The rest of the evening was a cheesy blur filled with nothing but a ludicrously super fattening quatre fromage pizza followed by a painfully long walk by the sea front to the apartment where we called it a day. The trip itself didn’t end with that. The next day though uneventful in terms of bloggable content, was perfectly relaxing and holidayish, as it should have been. We spent a great part of the day in doors, cooking, eating, chatting and watching a movie ... well actually choosing a movie to watch! In the evening we went down to the beach, walked a bit and soaked ourselves and splashed around. It was a bit saddening to say our goodbyes the next morning. Though we did make earnest promises to meet up at another such holiday the following year, wonder how true that can turn out to be. Keeping my fingers crossed.

Holiday in Nice - Day 1

Allow a bunch of geeks to decide upon a holiday, and what you end up with is tons and tons of email chains, and a blightedly disgruntled lot who have no idea if they ever would go on that damned holiday. After having changed the destination over a half a dozen times and dropping and including over another dozen people in the glowing list of vacationers, we had finalized the city of Nice in France to be our patch of sunny paradise. We were 5 of us, knights in strapped shoes and bulging backpacks like eager yelping puppies waiting to explore the city of Nice and take a dig at the Cannes film festival.


Chaitanya from Milan and Pratap from Bordeaux were there in Nice, I guess by mid day Friday. And our host … the geek of multiple post docs, the dude with the most comic smile that stretches a mile long from ear to ear, the seasoned French dog with the coolest looking sea view apartment… and well I must say the best host we could’ve ever had, Bhakta the bum, had everything planned out for us. I flew in by early evening from London, and was welcomed by the three at the airport. After a couple of laborious minutes, we slowly got accustomed to each others existence, for it was no joke in trying to acknowledge people instead of their mail ids and chat ids, which by far is easier. On reaching Bhakta’s apartment, over a cup of hot coffee we caught up on all lost threads of gossip and status stories of friends, jokers, nut heads and other literally-non-existent batch mates. Once well rested we decided to go for a stroll on the pebbled sea shore, that was a stones throw away from the apartment.


The sea was melancholic, with a fast darkening horizon and an occasional shroud of sharp cold wind to drape around us, we continued to chat over pointless silly things such as work and research; while Prathap and myself began collecting multi colored pebbles like diamond hunters on African river banks. After about an hours’ stroll, when we were chilled to our bones and our feet cried out in mercy at the piercing stones and pebbles that tore at our soles, we went into the city and got into a local grocer’s market. Filling our baskets with the least needed items (of course, the slab of Roquefort and bag of Parmesan cubes are vital for our very survival!) we proceeded to check out and get back home in time to receive the last to join the group, the towering personality with a rather huge and constantly expanding base (waist-line), Sri Ramulu from Brussels. Hmm … it must have been while we were in the midst of an intellectually stimulating discussion on whether to have Ramulu reach home and then cook for us or to allow Bhakta dish out some of the Indian-abroad survival dishes; that Ramulu found his way home. Well, eventually all of us had a go at spoiling the dinner, which apparently looked better than it tasted! It was great. No not the dinner, just the thing of getting together after so many years into our respective obscurities. Pulling each others leg over cheesy slapstick jokes and going over our plans for Cannes for the zillionth time, we found the night slip by way too quickly. And thats day 1 of our “Holiday in Nice”!

Our Images and Us

Images have always played a pivotal role in our human lives. Our minds seem to constantly gather, analyze, modify, classify and deduce from images. Interestingly, all other forms of inputs that we accrue through the other senses as well, get translated into images before they are worked upon by the mind. Be it smell, taste, sound or touch … there always is a picture that we naturally associate with it. When I eat something that has a unique flavor, which I unconsciously label as an input worth recording for future reference, I either associate with that taste, images of the place where the food was consumed or … an image of the food itself as I dipped my fork/spoon into it. These images then form an encoding for the taste which can later be brought up for referrals, with little effort. So too it is with sound. I can't quite remember, ever listening to music without picturing something in my mind's eye. As I listen to a song, the music dictates the kind of imagery that is formed in my mind's screen, which then helps to encode this song in my mind. Needless to say, touch brings about far more powerful forms of imagery.

On the whole, any event, with all its different types of inputs; sights, sounds, tastes, smells and feelings are apparently encoded in the form of images. This is often the reason why when we try to recollect a music once heard or a sense of touch once felt, we always bring back with that recollection, the entire event or scene (inclusive of all other sense inputs). The most interesting part is when we begin to manipulate these images in our mind to form deductions. We often play around with these images, trying perpetually to discern patterns in them. And these patterns then go to make filters (our pre conceived notions, perceptions, etc) which affect how we accept and process and label future inputs. This process is best observed in growing children. In little toddlers, we see the sense of amazement or complete indiscriminate absorption of signals/inputs. However, when the same kid grows up, deducing and working with self discovered patterns, the kid begins to:

• Ignore some of the input.
• Label some of them with minimal analysis.
• Would be "startled" by an input when it goes against a formed pattern.

Humans in general, find it very hard to keep the influences of patterns at bay. Everything we ever do is in consonance with well defined patterns. This is apparent in our lifestyles, our civilizations, our wants … everything. The left brain classifies patterns, while the right deduces newer patterns. How we come to balance these two activities decides the kind of personality that we make of ourselves. More people tend towards being more left brained, in the sense that they predominantly choose to classify new input images based on previous classifications and deduced patterns; and look lesser for new patterns that may arise. There is a very thin line dividing our rationale in choosing to look for new patterns instead of going in for classification i.e. being so called open and receptive instead of being judgemental!

Gods be blamed! If you're wondering whats got into me, well it is this damn book that I am reading, turning me into a zyborg or something of that sort! I am trying to allow myself to generously dip into the pool of experiences that this book has in offering, while still trying to hold on to my sanity. Well … heck! Either way I am crazy J.

Bingo! The Coffee Table's First Crown

If there is one thing that I so damn good at, it would be slipping into non-existance and cribbing about it. Ever so often, I get excited with some new found, fun filled change in the droning monotony of my life. But then, even before I realise, I would be fast letting things settle down with those powdery cobwebs over hanging.

It is indeed an oxymoronic and highly ironic paradox (Ahh … it feels a bit reliving after using some stupid bombastic word.) On one hand, I want to lead a very settled life, with every day, every hour planed neatly and lived most appropriately. So that I can get to bed at night, flash through the day's happenings and feel warm and smug. And on the other hand, I want every moment of my life to be a thrilling surprise faced with all the childish elements of splendid anticipation, little agonies and wizening mishaps. I can then hold the memory of every moment like a post card picture out of my shoe box and reflect on all the fun that filled that second.

Perhaps, I am not alone. Somehow I have this feeling that many suffer from the same disorder. Whatever! So … Here I am after a short indulgence with an orderly life, hoping to spin it out of control like a tossed pebble over the pool. For many, blogging has been a means of recording the event in their filmy lives. Sadly, they compare it to diary keeping. Tipping the scales right over, I think of blogging as kinks of excitement in an otherwise very surreal and normal life that I lead. Guess that explains why I am unable to do this very periodically. Boy! Does this give me the kicks! And so, when ever I'm most desperately looking to dash my head into a wall of thrill, I turn to blogging!

Now that I have amply excused myself with utterly contorted reasons, let me get to buissness. Oh!... what a dog I am. A few weeks back there was this very sweet person, Manoj, who so graciously chose to crown my corner coffee table with its first blogging award, so rightly termed "The Freedom and Independent award". Thanks for that Manoj. Wish I learn from you to be more earnest in blogging. And oh!... you have an amazing blog, lots of insightful thoughts and interesting outlooks. The good souled angle that I am, I am impelled by my divine insticts to spread joy and glory all arround. So, with that said, here are a list of buddies and fav blogs to whom I humbly pass on the baton of "The Freedom and Independent award". Cheers buddies ... have always loved reading your bloggings.

With Love to:

1. Puppy's rewind button - Though he writes his posts sitting next to his wife ... it makes you feel as if she writes half of it. I kinda like the holiday accounts and most of all the sweet recounts of all the great-to-remember foolish things that he does to make his simple life all the more interesting.
2. Arv's wall - Here is some one I can hardly belive I knew before he started blogging! He's so prompt and perhaps the Elvis Presley of the blogging kingdom. With an empire of fans and friends Arv has a world of his own, for the simple reason he provides the most honest window to a dude's life!
3. Bridget Jones reincarnate - I often wonder while reading her post whether I am talking to a long time friend in person. Her words are so lively and above all she is gifted with a style that would leave Ms.Carrie Bradshaw of Sex and The City gasping for her damn breath.

Cheers everyone ... There are more people I would love to give this award to. But I am holding back on my temptation. Hope to read more and more interesting stuff of all you people's blogs.

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.

A get away at Courtallam

It was that time of the year when the chain of mails begin to pour in, trying to stir the hornet’s nest, asking for interesting holidays spots that the batch “Navis” can bless to press the signet of fond memories upon. As usual it was Jaggu and Bali who took the max initiative. The choices varied from hill stations to seasides, to thick unseen jungles. Anywhere, where the weather would be delightful and the escape from routine life refreshing. After an ignited span of hot debating and Bali’s determination, it was “unanimously” decided upon that the paradise on earth that we would grace would be “Kuttrallam”.

Kuttrallam is a huge water falls that has gained exceeding popularity down south in India for reasons more than one. To begin with, rumors fly saying that the waters of this falls bear a therapeutic value, that when it lands crashing and lashing on our bear backs, as long as we choose to stand like buffalos in the rain and then walk out numb, we’re supposed to feel exhilarated, well massaged and completely rejuvenated. Of course, side effects vary from a prolonged distant siren-like whining in the far depths of our dark, waxy inner ears; a distant feeling of disconnected reality where we begin to wonder whether we’re still alive or half way up to hell and a couple of other symptoms which vary on a case to case basis depending on how much of a mash mellow one is.

The second most significant reason for this falls popularity is the number of incidental deaths of scrawny jelly legged people who come here annually to have bath, but miss that most needed foot hold over some slippery stone or boulder and choose to dive deeper into the unexplored depths of the gargantum falls, unfortunately never to return back to civilization. May the souls rest in peace, I mean them no ill will.

And to such a place we went, young and brave at heart. Three of us from Chennai and four from Bangalore. It was the peak season. Tourists from all over India, rather people who strongly believed that they should have their annual bath only at Kuttrallam, flocked and flooded the place. We looked up for a hotel on the internet and booked it over the phone. Take my word, not every hotel in Tamil Nadu that advertises on the net is tech savvy or decent. As things would have it, this one was a pathetic cramped hole for which we were robbed blind. One look at the room and it took me a great amount of self consolation and rigorous auto suggestion to calm myself down. It was only the joy of meeting the others from Bangalore that helped me turn a blind eye to the room’s aesthetic settings.

After all the hearty back slappings and leg pullings, we got ready to go to spot A, Shenbhaga Devi falls. This is a smaller falls which is approximately an hour’s trek through thick dark jungle. The reason why we didn’t go for the main falls was the frenzied clamor of a huge swarm of annual bathers pushing and dashing and standing in a long snaking queue just to get a chance to wet their scalps under the ragging thunder of the falls. We didn’t come all that way for just getting wet. We came for fun, fun that would last longer, at least longer than what the life guards at the main falls thought was permissible. After a quick coffee at the small stall in front of our danky lodge, we set of with our backpacks and polythene bags stuffed with towels and change of clothes and our cameras dangling from our necks, wrists and shoulders. I guess it was the trek that was more interesting than the falls themselves. Stopping over at every spot that presented a promising vantage point that would draw the ooohhhhs and aaaahhhhs of the people who would get to see the pictures we took, we posed and clicked away to glory. Every now and then, like the omnipresent monkeys that followed us, we would get drawn to wayside vendors selling spiced up pieces of mango, pineapple and gooseberries. Reddy and myself would keep munching and eating non-stop, while our official junk food sponsorer Deepu, would keep bailing out Rs10 notes at everyone of our stop overs.

Roughly about an hour and a half later we were at the falls. It was by no mean secluded or less crowded or anything that we imagined it to be. It was swarming, but … it wasn’t as bad as the main falls; there were no queues. Quickly splitting up the group into two, we got into the water while the other took care of our belongings. It was a small but fierce falls, falling over huge rugged mountainous boulders into a huge cup shaped basin at the foot of it. We had to walk over the rim of the basin, clutching a flimsy railing to keep our shaky balance; to get to the side where the men took their dips and showers.

Carefully scrambling on all fours we climbed half way up the boulders to stand in niche spots to enjoy the roaring and lashing of the falls. The water was cold and refreshing. Some how, standing half naked on slippery rocks under a treacherous falls seems more dramatic than taking a normal routine morning shower. (Oh! By the way, we in India take a shower every single day of the year, but of course with in the humble confines of our tiled bathrooms.)

After an hour or so, when we had enough of that tango-drums-played-on-your-head effect, we began climbing down to get into the basin at the bottom of the falls. None of us who got into the waters knew swimming, so we planed to stand waist deep at safe quarters on the rim of the basin. Reddy, Sara and myself stood as a group; when Sara and myself out of some sudden found spirit of discovery-kind-of-adventure decided to get deeper into the water. And so we began, hand in hand, gently drifting into the grey-green waters like some dreamy lovers!!!(Oh! For heaven’s sake!) All of a sudden in the same gentleness, the sure footed athlete that Sara is, began loosing his foot hold on the algae ridden pebbles that formed the bed of the basin. Like a slow motion scene out of Manoj Night Shaymalan’s movie, Sara started getting pulled deeper into the basin, purely due to the effect of serendipitous gravity and a pair of desperately thrashing arms. And all through we continued holding hands!

Before I realized anything I was getting pulled in, and began loosing my foot hold as well. Within seconds I was splattering with water getting into my nose and mouth. Sara, who turned all the more desperate, did what any hell-scared drowning guy with no idea of how to swim would do. He clung to my neck like a pallid squid trying to keep afloat. God! I knew he thought of me as a rubber head, but this proved it all!

Wage little bits and pieces of swimming class lessons from some long forgotten childhood memories splintered into my now racing mind. I tried some form of “Zambian” underwater cycling striving hard to keep afloat. But you get the picture, right? Its all too hard when someone is trying to hold you down under water like a rubber tube. So we eventually went down faster than we thought we would. All that panicking added to the soreness of our limbs.

But surprisingly amidst all that craziness, a clarity of thought dawned on me, like a clearing in the jungle. Boy! That felt as if I was standing on the other side of the door of death, just waiting to push through. I knew well that Sara and myself would go down try as much as we may to avoid it. But our best chance was to grab the attention of the others who were swimming at a distance from us. So I diverted all my energy in trying to signal to them asking for help. And then …. In seconds I went down. It was all too clear. In that split second I totally accepted what I was going through. Surprisingly, I thought of no God, no scenes of my life flashed across my mind. It was just an engulfing feeling of complete acceptance. I soon became unconscious as I gulped down gallons and gallons of water.

When I came to my sense, I felt a hard pull at my arm, and I was being helped towards the edge of the basin. Coughing out water, I burst into a fit of laughter and began looking around for Sara. There he was, not far from me, perched on a rock still shivering from fear and cold, with the blankest of expressions on his face. This was the first near death experience I had had. (Of course! Those exams at school and being confronted by enraged parents over dark score cards are beyond death experiences!) Loitering a little longer, we walked out of the basin towards our dry clothes. Later over hot tea and spicy mirchi bajji (a special sausage kinda food with a huge chilli in it) we recollected the whole episode. By far this was the most defining moment in my recent past after I left college. It made me question myself why “I” should have gone through all this. What was it that I was supposed to carry back home (apart from my living myself) out of this experience?

After this episode everything that I cared to cast my eyes on seemed to wear a new look. I felt reborn, no …. I felt as if the entire world around me was recreated. It was a beautiful feeling. I wanted it to last forever, like that magical early morning dream that we long never to fade.

Staying a little longer to snap a couple of more pictures, we retraced out steps back to our lodge. Soon we packed our bags and checked out heading towards Tirunelveli, for the next day we were to cover a few more falls. Landing back into the heart of a bustling township we found a decent hotel and guzzled and gorged on what ever crap the restaurant had to offer in the name of dinner. Absolutely worn out for the day we slipped into our rooms and crept into our beds.

Come day 2, we had a light breakfast and typical south Indian coffee and alighted a bus that rumbled through lush green waves of rice fields towards a place called Ambasamudram. We had plans to grace a few other water bodies that was on Bali’s list. Ooopppsss…. The names of these smaller and less known places seem to evade my poor memory always. Anyway, we had to take another motored metal box that ran on four wheels carrying a crowd of over stuffed helpless people. The first falls that we landed at was simply too crowded and fared no good on our internal evaluations. So we discarded it and went on to climb the hill near by, to which more adventurous souls around there pointed. But they warned us that the water there was far deeper and more dangerous and only experienced swimmers went that far. We were driven nuts by the long ride and the thought of an entire day going of waste. So we trekked upwards climbing over neatly decked steps towards a Shiva temple right at the top. Once there, we busied ourselves looking for safe shallow spots where clear water flowed. Sara, chose to stay on in the temple, while the rest of us getting roughish by now, changed into our shorts and found deep and perfect cuts in the rocks where we could lie down with the cool waters running over us. We spent nearly three hours fooling around clicking pictures and catching small colored fishes and chit chatting over everything under the sun. When the sun got blazing, threatening to char our delicate complexion, we decided to pack and leave for the day. The rest was one sad story of how we got back to our hotel, promising to go on more such holiday get aways … and parted ways to get back to our homes … back to our daily lives… routine work … syrupy sweet coffee and stale damp biscuits at office.

My Life ... and it will remain mine.

I caught myself again with the same question being asked on my face. Every time I ping or get pinged by a log-time-no-see buddy, the second or the third “Q” that gets flung at me would be “Hey!... what happened to ur blog? … get that lazy ass of yours moving and get writing more regularly.” That’s when I stop … when some invisible hand comes out of the blue to hit me smack on my forehead … helping me realize that I am getting carried away in the torrid currents of my wayward life.

Here I am far away from home, waking up late in the morning and draging myself to office, dying for those darn coffee and lunch breaks and getting back to home late in the evening to gape into the magical idiot box …. eat some trash and fall asleep dreaming of a better tommorrow. I do all this and ask myself what is wrong with me and my life, that it is almost dead as my brains! There seem to be no fun in it … no purpose to it … nothing to motivate me, keep me up and going. I go through all this like a zombie.

Normally I would have squatted squarely on these big questions of life and let them slip away. But this time it was very different. I wanted to feel good, I wanted to know that I was steering my life (Oh!... not that I turned an atheist … Holy God forbid ….). So the next day I woke up early. Put on my tracks and slipped into my running shoes. After a brief and brisk workout, had a refreshing breakfast of fruits and delightful cornflakes. Dicing and chopping lettuce, soy sprouts and bell pepper, packed myself a light meal of sandwich. Already feeling better, I remembered a quote I read on Men’s Health, “Dress for the job you want and not for the one you have.” So I pulled out the best pair I had, pressed it neat and set it aside. Showered clean, perfumed crisp and rightly dressed I left for work, telling myself that I was going to make my day interesting, exciting and perfect.

Believe it or not, it was one of the best day I had at work. Everything went beautiful. I was able to complete all the task that I took up. I made a dashing impression. I could almost feel that people were looking up to take note of the difference. I felt like a vortex of power and magnetism walking on two legs. It was amazing. The whole week went this way. I feel so much better.

Everything looks a shade brighter now. Though the deeper questions of life still remain unanswered, I find the subtle gloom now gone!!! A good shake up is always defining enough to make that extra needed difference in our daily lives.

My Bloody Ego

No more would I be apologizing to the huge mad crowd of die hard fans that I keep imagining are out there reading my blog, for not having written regularly. But then again … my dastardly bloody ego, makes me put on airs as I turn up my collars in swelling pride over a few paltry, friendly (and deeply understanding) praises that I receive from long time acquaintances. Hmmm…. Ego, what a damnable thing it is. For long I had no idea as to what it is, though I was categorically branded as tending towards the limits of egomaniacal exhibitions of outward behavior. God!...just see me … I have this dirty habit of writing twisted, extra compounded, highly sophisticated sounding sentences to convey a dumb idea .. That I am dumb!!! Phew!

As a school kid, we were often coaxed to build and exude self confidence. But as things would have it, the line between self-confidence and ego (and many other scary things) is simply too thin. Brought up amidst a bunch of spoilt brats in an affluent society; bragging was an indispensable mark of identification of the neighborhood. It was reasoned out thus – “It is true talent that comes with head weight.” (Kill the dog who said that.) Of course they were all talented … of course kids need encouragement to excel … but this is taking things a bit too far. Thank God! My parents were not of the same breed as those snobby, petulant, stiff necked aunts and uncles. They kept repeating a proverb in Tamil – “Nerai Kudam Thalzhumbadhu” – which, in essence, meant “Empty vessels made the most noise”…. Oh well … ok … here it is … the proverb literally meant that – “A pot that is filled to the brim doesn’t spill!!!” …. Hmmm…. Now I am scratching my head trying to make sense out of this for all my western readers! Well it goes like this. Women in the villages of India carry water from the river to home. And they often found that when the pots they carried were half filled, they spilt more than when the pots they carried were full. (God!.. it beats me ..trying to put it in scientifically, gravitationally, kinematically …. Bless all those dead physics teachers of mine …explanatory terms.)

Parents repeating good things on and off to get them into their kids’ muddy heads is one thing, and the extended incessant exposure to higher-than-normal-self-esteem attitude of your playmates is another. And unfortunately try as much as they may, my sis and myself didn’t escape the infection. With our noses thrown up and heads thrown back we walked from primary to secondary to higher school. I turned lucky when I walked this way into college.

There in college, I had in waiting a most needed rude shock. There were batch mates and seniors far more talented and gifted in ways more than one, a million times more humble and unassuming. They mutely shown like bight torch lights, highlighting my own faults to me. They would do this … they would do that … and yet when praised they would brush it all aside with a simple smile and go back to their normal routines like normal people. (uhh!... I mean like the rest of us …) God! … They had so much to teach by just being themselves. Slowly but steadily the culture of the place (my college) crept into my psyche. Somewhere down the line I learnt to learn the good things from people I come across. Woooo … boy! I sound like some weirdo. But it all paid me well.

I try sharing the same with my sis, but I guess we’re from different species altogether. We simply don’t understand the language we speak in, let alone more complicated concepts on humility. It all makes me wonder, why people want to SHOW their confidence to the outside world. Is it that we are incomplete all by ourselves without the reactions of the world around us, to what we are and what we do? What would it be like to stay absolutely unconcerned, unaffected and untouched by the world around us? Would that be a challenge? Would that be abnormal? Hmmm…. I think its worth a try. If it turns out to be disquieting and paranormal to the extent that I am branded as an unacceptable outcast amidst my own roost …I might have to turn around.

The 27th Of May

It was a very hectic day for all of us at home. It was the 27^th of May, a day for which, each year, as kids all three of us bro, sis and myself would stash away all our pocket money.

Back when we were kids, on the evening of 26^th we would pull out all those crumpled notes that had been so carefully tucked away into all unthinkable corners of our house and make a secret expedition to the local supermarket. (Oh! We would simply whistle and tell mom that we were going for a walk … and of course she would know well, but would choose to act appropriately ignorant.) Once there within the air-conditioned, well lit, polished floors of the supermarket, we would go about walking up and down the aisle stopping at every shelf, debating, estimating, recalculating and driving every sales girl crazy, scratching up the wall with our stupid questions. The store owner, a neatly powdered lady in starch stiff sari, in her late 40s would come snooping behind up, just to ensure that we were not there for shop lifting. Three little kids running all around the place inspecting almost every product she had displayed, would drive the old lady nuts. She would conspire and place all her worn out, half dead sales girls at strategic points in the shop to have a birds’ view (naa …. an eagle’s view) over us. But we cared nothing. The whole fiasco would last for about 3 to 4 hours. Well that’s about the time the three of us could be patient in one place on one task, before we get down to blows over small differences in opinions.

Within those few hours we would have “a” task in hand; to buy for mom and dad the most fitting anniversary gift that could be bagged for the all the pocket money we had been collecting all through the year. What we had in our minds never matched what we had in our hands; damn those flashy advertisements that interrupted all those cartoon shows! Finally, when we find ourselves well exhausted we would lay on the counter, all the prospective gift we could buy. Then there would be another round of intense heated discussion to reach a unanimous consensus on the right gifts. With decisions made we would proceed to have the gifts billed. Smirking at the old lady and growling at all the other zombie-like sales girls we would walk out of the store with the gifts in neat plastic bags.

We would then head to the florist’s. With the remaining paltry sum we would go about picking dewy, dainty, delicate flowers and soft colored leaves to make a bouquet back at home. After pulling and plucking at almost every organic stem the florist had in his little red buckets, we would stumble back home all too excited.

Once back, we would go into the master bed room and lock ourselves up, shooing out our highly irritable but sadly ineffective granny from the room. Bustling about gathering small pieces of assorted decoration material and anything of interest and attention we would finally settle down to make a huge anniversary greeting card and a big flower bouquet. Right from leaves, dried up petals, flashy stickers, color pencils, crayons, scissors, glue, etc … everything would conjure up from nowhere. After an eventful span of one hour twenty eight minutes and forty seven seconds we would crawl out of the room shouting out to mom (who would be making dinner by then) to stay away from the fridge … hmmm … to stay put in the kitchen long enough till we tell her that the coast is clear. We would run over to the fridge, make a large clearing in one of the shelves and carefully place the custom made bouquet. (That was our perception of keeping the flowers fresh and beautiful.) With that we would stick a note on the door of the fridge threatening anyone who moves anywhere within a few feet from the fridge. Sometimes we stood guard … till the night’s most important TV show started.

Then when the BIG day arrived, we would wake up nudging each other and roll over on our tummies to plants sleepy kisses on mom’s and dad’s cheeks, wishing them a happy anniversary. After all the initial hugging and thanking we would walk out to the fridge and pull out the bouquet and the greeting card, from the bottom most shelf of the cupboard. Both mom and dad would be amply pleased, with glistening eyes there would be another round of warm hugs and loving kisses.

And these days, when we’re all grown up like buffaloes, we still storm into shops on the 26^th of May and go about busying ourselves driving every pathetic store owner creepy mad. The only difference, instead of stashed away pocket money, it is the mindless swishing and swashing of shiny pieces of plastic, our bloody credit cads. Oh!... but the joy still remains the same. Ooooppppssss…. There’s my mom screaming at the top of her voice. I think she’s finally spotted the bill for the cake we ordered for her anniversary. God! I’ve now got to sit through another round of wont-you-ever-grow-up talk show!

My trip to the ...

Innocent and studious, I sit at my comp browsing at harmless sites when all of a sudden there is that nefarious ring of a cow-bell…. a long live, die hard buddy who has this sweetest of thoughts to catch up with matters of greater importance on that devilish thing called Google talk. “bum…. Where are the US pics? Why the bloody hell haven’t you uploaded your holiday snaps yet?” …. “HOLIDAY” … just imagine, the company’s most sincere employee was sent to the parent org in the US to WORK … mind you to work…. And here are these people asking for pics of my US holiday …. Atrocious. Well…. Of course there were those Saturdays and Sundays.

Oh!... ok here it is …. a) I was lazy and b) Some how I wanted to break away from the usual stupid and dumb habits of a nerd who goes abroad …. To list a few:

- take a few pics wearing the thickest and heaviest of overcoats, sunglasses and standing by the snow and grinning like a jackass. Upload the same pic on ur orkut profile and update ur status to “Now in US” …. Can’t believe that there are so many out there who do this.

- Keep mailing all close friends news items of better interest in the US, as if these ever mattered to anyone anywhere.

- Call up every number on your contacts and ask a stupid question – “Hi, its been a long time. How are u and WHERE ARE U?” and keep your fingers crossed for them to ask you the same question in return so that you could beam and tell them with puffed up chest that your abroad.

- Ask friends, relatives and country men how the weather is back at home; and fuzz about saying how cold it is in US and how well you adapted to the climate change. As if you were an African penguin relocated to the South pole!!!

- Wait till the entire world begs on bent knees for snaps you have so languidly clicked away on lazy afternoons of well maintained US. (God! .. and you bloody feel off as if NASA is asking their Mars probe machine for those prized pictures for the surface snaps.)

And now … here I am forced to do all those that I have listed above as things I detest most ;-). Anyway …. If my fan clubs all across India would find joy herein … I see no harm in giving in ….