Mindnight Blogging

I've been on a weight gain plan recently. I've been told time and again how I barely eat enough and since I've been struggling with my energy lately, I decided to give it a shot. Yesterday I found myself stuffing in extra rotis for each meals forcing the food down my throat. It was a battle between the extra food on my plate and me and I had decided to win.

Here I am at 3:30am with an upset stomach and no sleep. Psycho.

We've been putting together a little Spice Booklet for one of the restaurants at work. The idea is that we will give these to guests to keep them busy while the food takes too long. They, at the same time, will get frustrated and buy more alcohol. Win win for all. Anyway, the Food and Beverage Director looks at the list of spices to be included and violently (oh my) scratches out curry leaves. Huh? what? What's this against curry leaves? "Bloody South Indian obsession", he mumbled (He's a Bong).

I come home and my very-north-indian sis-in-law is giving the cook instructions on making Kadi, a Gujarati dish, and specifies, twice, don't put any curry leaves.

I don't get it. Having grown up in the South, curry leaves are a taken for granted part of every dal or vegetable. Why do the northies hate it so much? Ever had Chicken 65? Nothing but the spicy kick of the curry leaf. When you have that little green leaf thrown into your veggies, you don't need too much masala. Curry your curry so that you can enjoy the falvourful every meal.

Now I sound like a cook book.

On the other hand, northies, especially the Marwari ones, can't live without their Hing, asofetida. I like hing. Or let's say, I don't mind it. It makes me fart and I don't mind that too. But I don't like to taste only hing when I eat my food. I'd trade a curry leaf for hing any day.

This is what happens in the wee hours of the night. The mind refuses to rest.

A Letter to the U2 Lover

Last night, as we were talking about your love for U2 and how you remembered the details of the moments you connected with their music and lyrics, yours stories brought back a lot of Bjork memories for me. Even though I rarely listen to her music now, I remember how her music followed me through my years in college and some more.

The first time I listened to Bjork was when Sruthi came home from her college in Michigan in 1999. I was morose because I didn't like being stuck in Hyderabad while all I really wanted was out. So when she played Hyperballad for me in the hope that I would say "Wow, this is really cool", I actually looked really sullen and said "Wow, you have to be really fucked up to enjoy this". Ha, imagine her face. By fucked up I meant on drugs where your sensibilities would allow you to be carried away by the song.

Sruthi coyly left the CD with me, just in case and I played it a few times. I began to notice that each time Hyperballad played, my heart would begin to race and as the song progressed I'd have this desperate desire to run really fast and jump off a cliff. The song would mostly be playing in the background with me barely paying attention to the lyrics and the layers the melody are what got me first. And then I listened to the words:

I wonder what my body would sound like
slamming against those rocks
and when it lands
will my eyes be closed
or open

It was unbelievable. How did she know that's exactly what I wondered?

The next song that captured me was I Miss You (I've already sent this to you). I remember the exact details of the moment I fell in love with it. I was in the "will I ever meet my kind of guy" mode. I was in Ohio, driving to my uncle's place, and was parked at a traffic signal when this song started blaring on the radio. I recognized it but had, again, never paid too much attention to the lyrics. This time I listened, especially since the words were an echo of what was going on inside, and I felt really high listening to the song. Even today, I love this song. It's a fantastic foot tapping number with a hip hop swing in the undertone.

I've got so many songs of hers floating in my head right now. I'll just have to play them for you in person and tell you the stories.

The Gene That Sneaks In

Last week, in my counseling class, we were handed our "take-home" mid term tests. We took them home and brought them back so we could discuss and grade them in class, each one of us grading ourselves on each answer. Each of the 25 questions could have had at least 2 primary answers and several secondary answers and the teachers said we took one point for each correct primary answer.

As we were grading, there were some questions where I didn't have both primary answers. Old habits die hard and the girl who [almost] stood first in class kicked in trying to justify secondary answers as primary answers so she could get that extra point. We're aiming for a 100% aren't we!

Then two realizations hit:
1. We were allowed to skip 5 questions....so if I missed out on points it wouldn't really hurt my grade. Er, yeah.

Then a deeper insight:
2. So what if I don't get that 100% on paper. Not like anyone else is gonna get it. Um....

Even deeper:
3. Let go stupid. Getting 100% doesn't mean anything. Just grade it as it is and go home. No biggie.

Sigh.

Growing up, coming first in class was so important to me. Don't get me wrong, I never came first. Always second or third. Sometimes even fourth (Om my God!). But it became a bad habit to keep trying to reach towards the first rank and I forgot to be happy for having passed (not passing was never an option). And then, one year, I had a bout of chronic malaria and flunked Math. Math, for which I had won the ICSE prize. Math, my favorite topic. Can you believe that?

It wasn't acceptable at all and I gave myself a lot of grief about it, set about waking up at 5am everyday to go to Math tuition and was satisfied only when I got 90-something in the next round of exams. So compulsive.

So this time when I was grading my counseling skills paper, the dirty little competitive gene showed up again. I wanted to beat it down Tom-and-Jerry style -- bonk it on the head repeatedly until it shattered, but as the questions rolled on, the popped up again.

I guess I am gonna have to live with it.

Goan Glory

I just unpacked my suitcase from my trip to Goa last week. The clothes still smell of the ocean and there's bits of sand in the corners. Good trip. I've never enjoyed Goa this much before.

When we decided that Goa it would be, I set about looking for the best beach and the perfect little place to stay. It had to be comfortable but not too fancy, in budget but not necessarily too cheap. And of course, not too touristy. Er, compulsive behavior, I admit. But Goa, being the holiday haven it is, gave me several options from north of the North beaches to the ultra-southern areas. We finally picked Palolem beach because there was a hospital near by (just in case certain pregnant people (not me) needed to use one) and stayed a Ciaran's camp, which I thought was not very Indian friendly (the discriminated-in-my-own-country experience). I would periodically get riled up about it but was afraid to say anything lest I make a bad impression on my new friends....

The food was great - a pure fish diet for one week, the company was fantastic (I learned loads from Renu Nair about being the Boss), the afternoons were spent taking naps or playing scrabble (well, Arun and I playing while the others were trying to stay awake), I'd like to make an honorable mention of the deolicious oil massages I received everyday. We celebrated Arun's birthday at Loginoors, an old Goa classic complete with sullen waiters and no air conditioning. The devious three (the baby got it's own vote) convinced us, under the pretense of a democratic vote, into driving an hour into Margao to watch Tashan (every vacation has a thorn).

The waves in Goa were surprisingly large. A big one whammed into me and slammed me back towards the shore, shoving salt water all the way up into the brain. That's when I bowed out and tip toed sheepishly to the gentler edge of the beach. The boys battled the waves challenging the ocean to come get them, and it sure as hell did. At the end of the trip, I wasn't alone on the gentler edge of the beach.

The next two days were spent at "eco beach huts" called Chattai. Looked very cute and nicely designed. But with the cheap rates and natural materials, we got loads of red and black ants, mosquitoes, a hard bed, and a toilet whose seat refused to stay on. Two days into it, we were so miserable that we decided to fuck our budget and move into this posh Portuguese villa an hour north of Palolem. By now, we just wanted some comfort, didn't want to see the damn beach and the idea of sand in our bums was just too squirmy. The last two days at the villa were enough to erase all painful memories of Chattai. We even got to eat lunch at Martin's Corner, Sachin Tendulkar's favorite restaurant in Goa (Oh My!).

One morning we went for a little boat ride to see dolphins and spent the hour chasing a couple of them around. APSD was hoping for a little synchronized show where a whole school of dolphins would jump through the air to show off their skills. Poor child should have gone to Sea World instead.

By the time the trip ended, we had spent time at almost all the places I had narrowed down in my research. The OCD shade of my persona was deeply satisfied (so what if Chattai sucked). I wanted to gloat about it but was distracted by the misery of the trip back home. Air Deccan delayed by hours and I was left all by my lonesome to suffer the withdrawal symptoms that always come on after each vacation.

Jaane Kahaan Gayee Woh Din

Sangeet Theatre, one of Hyderabad's oldest cinema houses (since 1967) is being torn down to be rebuilt as a plush multiplex. Good decision, Hyderabad needs more cinema halls (have you tried getting tickets to a movie on the weekend?). But I couldn't resist feeling nostalgic about the place. It was an essential cornerstone of my teenage years.

Sangeet was one of two "decent" theaters in town that showed English films. In high school, Sunday afternoons at Sangeet was a rigid tradition. After a hard night of "partying" we woke up stiff and sore (er, we thought head banging was so cool) and got someone to drive us to watch the latest English movie in town, even if it was something as awful as Titanic. Hyderabad was really short of places to out at. So going to the movies was the next best option. And then it became a cultish thing. If you were invited to watch a movie with us, then you're "in". Yeah, we were a bunch of snobs.

I laughed out loud as I remembered the day it was my friend Shraavya's birthday and we carried a little cake for her. Not wanting to wait for the interval, we lit it up in the middle of the film and began to sing for her. People around us were livid and the manager stormed in and found her holding this cake with 16 bright candles, yelled at her and threw her out while we were sniggering in our seats. Nasty teenagers, I say.

The cinema house also played an important role in supporting budding romances. Where else could we escape the conservative eyes of the city's adults and smooch and cuddle in the darkness? I think more than one of my friends had their first kiss here.

Sangeet's chutney sandwiches are still famous. Spicy chutney downed with Thumbs Up (the cola drink), an explosion on the taste buds. Sometimes, when we're in the area, we stop and pick up a few for the road. The man who's been making them has been around for 15 years now and I hope they bring him back when the shiny multiplex opens.

I haven't watched a film there in a few years, with traffic it now takes one hour to get there as opposed to the twelve minutes about ten years ago. Also, it's just not the same without the gang of friends. But whenever I think back, I can't remember what else we did on Sunday afternoons.

Got Milk?

Milk is disgusting. I've always thought so. So this usually eliminates from my diet:
ras malai, milk pudding, kheer, white butter, milk cream (eeyuk), rabdi, and all those goodies that are very milky (er, ice creams somehow missed the list).

I can't remember when I started hating milk. My mother has told horror stories, where she sat me and a glass of milk for at least an hour every morning until she got frustrated, slapped me around, and forced the doodhi poison down my throat. As I grew older, the parents thought I must have matured, and in their innocent trust, left my glass of milk on the table, brimming with confidence that I would gulp it down before rushing off to school. The minute they turned around, I poured the milk down the drain, into a potted plant, wherever.

I didn't always escape drinking milk by myself. Mary, our cook and mother of two young boys, was a willing ally in helping the milk disappear. She hid the glass away and it on to her sons who showed up at the window at the right time. I didn't care as long as I didn't have to drink it (yes, her boys are tall and strong now and I would like to take some credit for it). Ha, I got away with it for quite some time.

But good things never last, do they. The parents found out (I think my brother ratted on me) and from then on I had to drink my glass of milk under the nose of a very stern parent. The word spread and even when I visited relatives, all my aunts were clued in. What an pain it was. Ugh.

So when I turned 16, I refused to drink it anymore. Rebellion is a powerful tool and adolescent rebellion is just delicious. I finally relaxed that I would never have to touch milk again.

Fast forward to 27, a recent medical report brought to the table that I need at least two glasses of milk with Horlicks (not the chocolate flavor) everyday. This has been a nightmare for the last one week. I've been kicked in the butt and have had to suck it up. I now find myself in the kitchen twice a day making that detested glass of milk, tempted to pour it down the sink, but gulping it down instead.