Mind Your Language

The author does not hold herself responsible for any sense of outrage felt by readers. If you are easily scandalized by the slightly off-colour language that is in common usage these days, you will do well to skip this post and go on to the next snippet.

English is a funny language (notwithstanding the fact I love it very dearly). It is sometimes really galling how some words cannot be used in their "legitimate" sense any more all because someone just decided to hijack the word to mean something very different altogether. Many an unwitting, unsuspecting person could end up with red face if they were to use certain words without knowing the "other" meaning.

The first time I experienced this was when I told a friend in the UK that "I wouldn't spend a penny" on something. She laughed and told me never to say that in front of a Brit. Apparently "spending a penny" was commonly used to mean visiting the toilet - one had to pay a penny when using public toilets in the past. Of course the fact that it cost 25 pence when I was there did not make a difference to the expression.

Yesterday a friend of mine told me she was in splits (meaning she had a hearty laugh, not that she split in two) when she read that I had to run for the "dicky" to understand some words which I did not understand. She asked me if I knew what the word meant. Now of course I did (for those who don't, please run to the nearest dicky and check it out yourself - I don't want to explain such an inanity here in graphic detail), but I had not thought of it when I very fondly referred to my favourite book of words by that name.

I think twice for this very reason to say "That is a really gay colour" or "I am feeling very gay" or "The mood at the meeting was really gay" or "He is really gay". The word has become really taboo, although its original intent was to convey a very happy state of affairs.

Take for example the word pansy. I can't say "Oh, how I love pansies" when I love a flower, simply because I would get strange looks.

Long ago I had read a book by Anurag Mathur called "The Inscrutable Americans" whose protagonist is an "innocent" student who steps out of his little village in Madhya Pradesh for the first time. Here is an excerpt of his letter to his parents. Note the misconception he had when he heard a commonly used slang.

At Customs, brother, I am getting big shock. One fat man is grunting at me and looking cleverly from small eyes. "First visit?" he is asking, "Yes," I am agreeing "Move on," he is saying making chalk marks on bags. As I am picking up bags he is looking directly at me and saying "Watch your ass." Now, brother, this is wonderful. How he is knowing we are purchasing donkey? I think they are knowing everything about everybody who is coming to America.
They are not allowing anybody without knowing his family and financial status and other things. And we are only buying donkey two days before my departure. I think they are keeping all information in computers. Really these Americans are too advanced.
But, brother, now I am worrying. Supposing this is CIA keeping watch or else how they can know about our donkey? Anyway please do not tell Mother and Father or they are worrying, but lock all doors and windows. If CIA wants to recruit me to be spy in Jajau, I will gladly take poison before betraying our Motherland. Then I am going out and cousins are waiting and receiving me warmly.

Imagine the situation if I were wanting to go to Alaska and someone were to tell me a certain jacket or anorak looked really "cool". Why on earth would I want to buy it when I wanted something to keep me warm?

How on earth could a skimpily clothed damsel look hot? Would she not be cold when she was so barely covered?

Or how can smoking be "cool" for that matter?

Talking of smoking, brings me to the topic of butts. Why would anyone keep butting onto the personal rights of a person smoking a butt and tell him to kick the butt (would this smoker understand the term or would he go and kick the butt of this "butt"er-in)? Or why indeed would he keep butting in and disturb someone who was already working his butt off?

Here was another situation where a friend went to the US and was stopped for checking at the customs. He was carrying some “darbha” herbs with him for some shraddha rituals which are performed routinely. He was asked what that was. He did himself in when he replied “it is grass” and had some lengthy explanations to give before he was let off.

So dears, I hope you will be very careful next time you use this English "tongue" (figuratively I mean, not literally).

Touchy Times

"I was asking my son to get married to anyone he wants to, so long as it is a girl!"    

Not a very uncommon sentiment I hear these days. It makes me wonder. We humans are a very confused species. 

Leave alone life long partnerships .... let us talk of simple friendships. Time was when a guy with his arm across the shoulders of another guy on the road singing "yeh dosti hum nahin todenge" (we won't break this friendship) was a common sight and people used to envy folks who had such friends and friendships. Two girls sitting together, holding hands, giggling together, sharing confidences, looking conspiratorially at each other ..... well, silly girls sharing girlie confidences for some, so sweet for others.

I received a cultural shock when I was studying abroad. A friend of mine (a girl) once just touched another friend (a girl) from Australia and the usually chummy, jolly girl reacted so badly - almost as if she had been bitten by a snake - that the "touchy" friend felt really hurt about the touchiness of the "touched" friend. We wondered what had bitten her. Anyway, a cultural lesson learned that day - boys don't touch boys and girls don't touch girls. We had to relearn our moral science/social science/cultural science or whatever science that was. In India it was boys don't touch girls, girls don't touch boys. No, they don't even look or smile at them; forget it, they don't even think of them!

That was about a decade and a half ago. A decade has wrought a lot of changes on our decadent society. We are going the evil Western way. Now listen! We have progressed. We have become very "civilized". We may know about gays, but that does not mean that we walk around hand in hand or with our arms around the shoulders of friends of the same gender when we are feeling particularly "gay" (meant in a different sense of course)! Otherwise we may be mistaken for gays! And our society is too puritanical (despite being Westernized enough to eat burgers and to wear Nike shoes) to tolerate gays. So does that mean we can walk hand in hand with members of the other gender? Oh no, noooooooooooooo...... we are Indian, remember? If you don't, the moral police will be only too glad to remind you of the fact!

So whom do we touch??????????? 

My Experiments With Cooking

Disclaimer: Everybody is advised to read this write-up only if they feel up to taking some shocks. The author does not intend to willfully offend anyone's sensibilities, having said which she does not guarantee the improbability that that might be the outcome. Any such effect is purely unintentional.

That I am a gourmet (and admittedly a gourmand) is a well known fact. A gourmet is one who appreciates and enjoys good cooking while a gourmand is one who can't lay off food. My motto is "I see food, I eat it" (my definition of sea-food diet). I have tried various kinds of diet, but this is the only one which I have managed to faithfully stick to and which has worked for me. (As I write this there are some lovely smells floating out of the kitchen, making me weak in the knees).

So coming back to the point, although I have always loved eating, I cannot say the same about cooking. I was a very hard nut for my mom to crack. Somehow I was an avowed women's libber in my school days and did not like the fact that people expected only girls to learn cooking while men could expect to be waited on (at least it was my perception of reality those days). So I pig-headedly refused to go anywhere near the kitchen , while continuing to eat like a larva.

While the mysteries of cooking eventually did begin to intrigue me, my big fat ego would not allow me to admit to mom that maybe I would not mind some lessons in cooking .

So one day when I was in Std. X, she went out with my neighbours to see a film, while I was left at home to study. That did not go down too well with me and I decided to entertain myself at home. What better way of doing that than eating some nice. My mind thought up a wonderful dish to eat - fried potatoes. I wanted to make it like what my friends brought in their lunch boxes. How does one fry potatoes? Well, simple. One took a wok (kadai), chopped up potatoes, put them into the wok and onto the fire, closed it with a lid and presto!!! After a while, there would be delectable potato fries coming out of the wok straight into my waiting mouth. (I could almost imagine the trajectory it would follow).

After a while of waiting, I opened the wok and checked inside. The potato did not want to part company with the bottom of the wok and it did not look like what mom made. Nor did it look like what my friends brought in their lunch boxes. I decided to take no more risks. Mom might arrive any minute and it would be a major loss of face for me to let her know that I had tried my hand at cooking. I picked up a piece of potato. It did not quite follow the trajectory I had imagined it would take. It made a brief halt in front of my eyes. Then I thought, maybe it might be alright after all. I gingerly took a bite. It was completely raw. What could I do? If I chucked it in the bin, mom would certainly spot it and my cat would be out of the bag. So with all the courage and adventurous spirit of a new teenager, I chucked the whole stuff into my biological bin. It was strong enough to biodegrade it without anyone noticing. Then came the next step of cleaning the wok and even if I say so myself, I did a sterling job of it and put it away, hoping that all evidence of the crime was wiped out.

But I realized two facts that day. One was that I would not make such a good criminal after all. Second that our CID should have made it a policy to employ only mothers. After all God provided them with a sixth sense and eyes behind their heads as well as other powers of ESP (Extra Sensory Perception). So it was to my utter chagrin that mom comes into the kitchen and asks me "Did you try cooking something today"? And being a useless liar, I decided to give her the facts straight. After that I was put through an interrogation about how I made the fries. When I told her, she said "Have you never watched me do anything? Don't you know that you need to use some oil and spices and that you need to sprinkle some amount of water to allow vegetables to cook? Why could you not ask me? Would I not have taught you"?

The years went by. When I left home for the first time, i was determined that if I were to ever feel homesick for any reason, lack of my favourite foods would not be on that list. Thus it was that I got the recipes for all my favourite items from mom before I left, and I must say it stood me in good stead. I did a pretty good job of feeding myself.

The only problem was that I did not have so much time for cooking and many of our vegetables were not available where I lived. Once when I went to the doctor with recurring headaches and tiredness, he said it must be lack of proper nutrition. I felt very sorry for myself and went shopping for vegetables at "Safeway" and decided to make a mixed vegetable soup for myself.

Once back at the hostel, I found that my pressure pan was not large enough to hold all the vegetables and borrowed my friend's pressure cooker. The soup was made and was pretty tasty. So I shared it at the communal table with my friends at dinner time. We had it for one day, then the next and the next. I had it alone on the fourth day. Finally I decided I could do without such "healthy" soups. What was I to do with the remaining stuff? It was in this way that the soup found a resting place in my freezer.

A few weeks passed. After about 3 months, I decided it was time to check out on the state of the soup. I pulled out the container and defrosted it. I did not know what to do with it. So after a bit of I had a brilliant . I added some orange masoor dal, some onions and masala and seasoning to it and pressure cooked the stuff again (just to make sure it was safe for consumption). An American friend walked in, took in a whiff of the air and asked what smelt so good. That was my chance. She was given a generous helping of the stuff and she walloped it up with great relish. I was relieved. It was not just edible, but yum. So the "new" dish made its way back to the communal table.

When asked what it was, I told my friends to taste the stuff and take a guess (nothing works like a bit of suspense). After they had finished, no one could guess. So I finally spilled the beans and was met with a horrified silence. "What? It is 'that' soup”? What if something happens to us? You – a microbiologist?" I assured them that the microbiologist had carried out a quality control test on it before it was served up. Besides I had part taken of the stuff myself. So that should be proof of the fact that it was safe for human consumption. Besides the proof of the pudding (dal in this case) was in eating it, wasn't it? And after all they had all declared it to be yum – and that was just 5 minutes ago.

To cut the story short, there was still some dal left and my friend whose culinary skills extended to cooking rice, offered to do me a favour and finish up the stuff the next day. So that was how my "healthy" soup was finally cleared up, with no detrimental effects whatsoever to anyone.

Motivating or Moti Waiting?

"Amma, I have no clothes to wear" goes up the tortured cry. Amma gives me an exasperated look. "What? Just look at your cupboard. Every time I open it, clothes keep falling out . How much more do you want? Do you know, when we were young, we used to have only two sets of sarees which we used to wash every day and use alternately". Having given me this homily, Amma vanishes into the kitchen to avoid my wailing. We have to go to visit some people and I have to dress up properly. Clothes after clothes are brought out of the cupboard and tried out. One is tight there. One is tight somewhere else. I cannot wear such tight clothes. It is indecent. Queen Victoria did not derive her inspiration from me for no reason.

"You need to lose weight. You cannot be so overweight at 14. Look how figure conscious people are these days". Every Tom, Dick, Harry, friend, relative or other animal making a visit to our home informs me of this. Why don't you go swimming? It is good exercise. But that requires me to get into a swimming costume. Not decent. No. Not on the agenda. "Look at the way you dress. Can't you get some better looking clothes? Your dresses look like tents". Oh well, that is my allowance to healthy activity - camping. So I live in tents. And am perfectly happy in them.

Eventually I buckle in. I go for aerobics, I go for swimming (yes even I, from whom Queen Victoria drew her inspiration), I go for yoga. But it is such a drudgery to get my ample self moving. I lack a very important thing. Motivation.

It is not sufficient if you just do a little exercise. You also need to control your diet. But my taste buds protest loudly at this. I mean if they should not be exercised, would they not waste away? What use their existence then? Did God create them for nothing? Did he not know what he was doing? Oh this is absolute torture. I am not motivated enough to keep smelling all the wonderful odours that float out of the kitchen and keep out of there. And having set eyes on the fanciful fare, I cannot avoid tasting it. I simply lack the motivation.

One day a gurumayi comes home and says. What you lack child is the motivation? Just wait! I'll give you the magic mantra. Say the word “motivate” 108 times in the morning and 108 times in the evening. I promise you if you say if for the next 108 hours, you will be motivated enough to get down to losing some weight. I say it as prescribed and it sounds to me like “moti weight”. I am now dying of mortification at calling myself “moti” and talking of my “weight”. The deed is done. I am now motivated enough to start a weight loss programme.

I throw myself into the programme with all my weight. I am delighted with the results. The ugly duckling now looks like a swan. The moti waited long enough to lose all this weight. She will certainly take care of herself in future not to lose the benefits of this major war on weight that has been waged. Everyday is a battle against self and nature to keep the weight away.

The years roll on and eventually the rolls pile on. There are many battles waged in the course of time. Some are won only to be lost again. Eventually, "Lady Wisdom” takes her place along with the rolls. She tells me, “whatever will be will be. You have to enjoy yourself, you see?” I accept that advice, buy myself a lot of tents all over again and decide to live a healthy life “camping” in them. This way, even moti will not realize how much weight has piled on, let alone others noticing. As they say “Ignorance is bliss”. Que sera sera. Moti and weight will coexist peacefully till death do them part.

The Big Fat Indian Wedding Drama

Some terminologies and concepts bring a smile to the face. Indian weddings, when they are not driving people (read the bride's family) to tears, generally serve as a cause of tremendous amusement. 

Just take for instance the way the weddings are orchestrated. The age old custom of "arranged marriages" was the norm till such time as "love marriages" appeared on the scene. To a casual listener, not quite familiar with the Indian way of thinking, both would sound odd. 

Arranged marriages generally implied (in earlier times) that the bride and the bridegroom did not know each other and probably did not even see each other till after the wedding ceremony. That they did not see each other during the wedding ceremony was taken care of in many communities by making the bridegroom wear a sehra (a decoration of flowers or beads covering his face), the bride had to wear a ghoonghat (a head dress to cover her face). Probably they were making that one or the other did not faint after seeing the others' face and the wedding did not fall through.  The spouse came gift wrapped, so to say, and the gift could be seen only after the priests had put their stamp of approval on the proceedings.

The rule (followed by people of decent upbringing and of good cultural and traditional values) says: "You shall not love before getting married.  It is a shame for the family and for the community.  Once married, it little matters whether you love your spouse or not, our responsibility is done.  Love/Like/Lump him/her."

I am reminded of a tweet by a certain famous personality goes, "All your life you are taught not to talk to strangers; Suddenly you are asked to sleep with one!" Well, that is the very Indian concept of virtue. 

Oh well, this concept obviously did not go down too well with some youngsters. Or maybe Cupid is very favourably disposed to certain types. So he introduces them to each other and they fall very much in love. Parental and societal disapproval rate is pretty high - "Aaj kal ke chora chori kya love shove ke chakkar mein padte hain" or "onga paiyan oru ponnai luv panaran" translated as "your son is doing love to one girl" (Please don't get any wrong ideas here.  It is just the colloquial expression for "to be in love".  Every possible means at their disposal gets deployed in the war against youngsters who "do love". The moral police of the country has recently started rounding up Romeos and Juliets holding hands at street corners or in the local park.  Other self help methods employed by the parents include locking up the girl at home, getting judgments passed against the couple for indulging in such extraordinary behaviour such as loving each other or worse still marrying the person they love (the khap panchayats are very helpful and obliging to parents in this matter), emotional blackmail - parents having heart attacks, threatening suicide or refusing food (wouldn't it be a good idea to distribute this excess food to the starving millions in this country?). Now the youngsters are only left with one option viz. to elope, go to the nearest court or temple and get married. No parents, no shamiana, no dowry, no wedding trousseau, no guests, no five star catering, no gifts, no wedding photographs, no album, no video-shideo .......  What an anti-climax.  After the excitement of a whirlwind romance, the wedding becomes a very sedate one.  They did break a very important rule of Indian married life, did they not?     

Well, the younger generation is pretty smart. Or at least some of them are. They do not like the idea of an arranged marriage, they “do love”, they want to get married, but they do not want to miss out on the side benefits – obviously they have to keep pappa and mamma happy. So what do they do? Sweet talk the old man and old woman and make them believe it was their idea in the first place to get these two married. The parents are happy to believe that it is an arranged marriage – parents arranged it, parents spent the money, parents invited a lot of guests, spent a lot on trousseau, shamiana, band-baaja, food ........ and happy young couple get a lot of gifts. They are happy posing with parents for the photographs and videos. They have a long line of visitors waiting with bouquets / gifts / envelopes containing cash in their hands to be handed over to couple; the obliging couple pose with them too, with bouquet and have a picture taken (guests now can have photographic evidence to prove they did not partake of the food for nothing. They honourably spent money to gift the couple something or other. Besides the couple and their parents have an idea of who gave what / how much, so when they are invited to said guest's son's wedding, they will pay back (in terms of gift or cash or boquet) to same tune. Such a wedding where everyone is happy is called a "love cum arranged marriage". 

The parents are no less creative these days.  They introduce the eligible prospectives, allow them to talk for anything varying from 15 minutes to a week.  Then they "convince" the youngsters that the choice was entirely left to them and that they had the last word in fixing the deal.  Such weddings are termed "facilitated weddings".  Parents only "help" by "introducing" the main parties to each other. 

Now things have gone one step further.  This is the age of IT.  So everything is decided by the computer.  Computer plays role of astrologer.  Computer plays the mediator by introducing parties with similar interests to each other.  Wedding photos are put up on Facebook for everyone to see.  If the wedding ends in misery or divorce, it gets discussed on various forums.  Virtual friends help sort out issues, or advice consulting a lawyer. 

And soon the next generation arrives on the scene to carry on our rich and varied heritage or to add more variations to it.

O Zis Inglish Tung

I alvays vant to lern nu languages. No, my speling is not bad. Zis is European Inglish.  
Rid zis:

The European Union commissioners have announced that agreement has been reached to adopt English as the preferred language for European communications, rather than German, which was the other possibility.

Sertainly sivil servants will resieve this news with joy. Also the hard "c" will be replased with "k." Not only will this klear up konfusion, but typewriters kan have one less letter.

There will be growing publik enthusiasm in the second year, when the troublesome "ph" will be replased by "f." This will make words like "fotograf" 20 persent shorter.

In the third year, publik akseptanse of the new spelling kan be expected to reach the stage where more komplikated changes are possible. Governments will encourage the removal of double leters, which have always ben a deterent to akurate speling. Also, al wil agre that the horible mes of silent "e"s in the languag is disgrasful and they woud go.

By the fourth year peopl wil be reseptiv to steps such as replasing "th" by "z" and "w" by "v." During ze fifz yer, ze unesasary "o" kan be droped from vords containing "ou", and similar changes vud of kors be aplid to ozer kombinatins of leters.

Und after ze fifz yer, ve vil al be speking German lik zey vonted in ze first plas.

As part of the negotiations, the British and American government conceded that English spelling had some room for improvement. Consequently, they have adopted a five-year phased plan for what will be known as European English (Euro for short). In the first year, "s" will be used instead of the soft "c."

I zot I alredy nu Inglish. But no, zey sayz I dont. I ned to learn Inglish agen. Sory stat of afairs. I never zot I vud hav to lern, sory relern a languag so lat in lif. 

But vot a woman has to do, a woman has to do. So I am lerning zis nu vershun of European Inglish al over agen. As if British Inglish vos not bad enuf. So I am lerning zis nu vershun of European Inglish al over agen. As if British Inglish vos not bad enuf. 

Zer is gud sid to al zis. Zis nu Inglish has German fazer and Inglish mozer. I no a litl German. So zis internashunal hibrid not very dificult. 

Olso, bing a member of varius sochul netvorking sit and also moderatorin on a popular ledis sit helped me lern zis nu vershun of “Gerlish” or “Ingman” (sum Inglish bard sed "Vot's in a nem"?) very esily. Becoz meny members rit in SMS/Chat languag vich is short cut. Zank u ILits.  U just mad my lif very esy.  So vot u say? Am I doing gud job of lerning European Inglish? Am I gud studentin?

Bas! Bas! (Enough, enough)

I love travelling, but have always had a hard time on buses. Before you all start writing me off as a snob, I would like to say it is not me. It is my stomach. It seems to have an allergy to any vehicle called a bus and protests at the very word. I can almost hear it screaming for mercy "Bas, bas, no bus for me" at the very mention or thought of the word. 

The history of my bus rides goes back to my childhood. Those days, cars too were an equally detested mode of transport. I remember my aunt taking me in her chauffeur driven car to Zaveri bazaar - shopping for my cousin's wedding - and I left my indelible mark on it by the time we got back. Of course with threats from aunt to make me clean up the car myself.

The next memory of a bus ride in Mumbai is of me - a 4 or 5 year old - going with my Mama. The bus breaked somewhere in between and I fell flat on my face. That was bad enough, but the outrage at such buses being called "BEST" buses was tremendous. "What are their worst buses like"? I asked when I got back home.

Back in Kerala, when travelling once by bus, the poor bald guy sitting in front of me was at the receiving end of my indignant stomach. Those days I used to be given lemon and ginger to suck - all to no avail. Many years later, when I was unwell, my parents struck a deal with Guruvayoorappan, that they would bring me to the temple (even if it meant physically dragging me) if he would make me well.  (Talk of corruption having reached the high heavens in India!) As consolation, I was given an anti-emetic. All along the way I wanted to sleep, while my mother kept trying to wake me up asking "Have you come to sleep or to see the scenery"? She conveniently forgot that I had not come - I was dragged along. By the time I got off the bus, I was sick. I was given 2 idlis to compensate the loss. After that my brain packed up on me and I passed out. But my parents were not to be deterred. Both of them gave me a shoulder on either side and dragged me round the temple.

Why am I talking of all this now? Well, just to explain why I do not travel by bus. For further explanation, refer to this picture.

That is not a great incentive is it, to travel by bus? This is what buses in Bangalore frequently look like. Besides, all the boards being in Kannada, I don't know where the bus plans to take me - up, down, left or right. Any enquiries earlier were met with the very helpful answer "Gottilla" (don't know). So my preferred mode of travel these days is on my Activa or by autorickshaw. 


My experience with auto rickshaws has been a varied one. I have shared this previously in "10 Golden Rules of Auto-rickshaw etiquettes". Yesterday I needed to go to the old part of the city for some work and so hired one. The driver stopped midway and explained with a sweet smile that his accelerator cable was broken. So I was grateful to get off. Unfortunately other drivers did not share my enthusiasm to go to the part of town where I needed to go. Just as I was wondering what to do, a bus came along. I enquired if it was going to Town Hall and when the answer was in the affirmative, I made to enter, but the bus started moving. Not one to be deterred, I actually managed to jump onto it all the same. That was a major achievement which made me feel good about myself. I have not become as old as I imagined. And the bigger achievement was the fact that without a word, I managed to get the conductor to stop the bus once again - he probably is not used to seeing middle aged women try such stunts. The other achievement was the fact that my stomach did not actually protests too loudly - it just went into a major sulk for the rest of the day. I can deal with that. Maybe it is mellowing down with age. 


In any case, I am extremely grateful to the rickshaw driver for helping me rediscover my innate gifts (jumping onto moving buses) as well as for saving me a fairly goodish pile. 


Maybe in due course of time, I will muster the courage to step into a bus once again. In fact, one of these days I plan to buy myself a monthly pass, go on every bus in town to find out where it goes and where all it stops. It will spare you the need to read all this stuff here - I will be too busy travelling to write and my tum like the proverbial shrew will be tamed too. 

How I did not become a Journalist

I had just finished my B.Sc. I wanted to try for a seat for M.Sc at the University of Pune. Unfortunately the seats were limited, and I was not as good as the others who tried that year. I was at a loss of what to do further. The future seemed bleak.

The newspaper carried an advertisement for a course in Journalism. I thought I would give it a try. People at home were certain I would not make it. Not one who was never interested in the news, never read the newspaper etc. Not one whose general knowledge did not extend beyond the area in which she lived.

Anyway, I decided to take the entrance test. I did not have anything to lose. Believe me, this is the best position to be in. It makes one take risks one would otherwise hesitate to take.

Next day I went for the test. There were objective questions and multiple choice questions. There was a question "Who was the Frontier Gandhi"? Search me. I was aware of only Mahatma Gandhi. Although I had heard of Frontier Gandhi, I had no clue who it was. For some reason a voice whispered in my head "Say Khan Abdul Ghaffar Khan". I thought I would once listen to someone. Anyone reading it would be unknown to me, so I had the immunity of anonymity, so who cared if it were right or wrong.

After I went home, I faced another Spanish inquisition about what questions were asked. When I came to Frontier Gandhi, there were curious looks and I was asked "and, what did you write"? Imagine my relief when I found out that my thukka was right. Next day there was a list of candidates who could attend a viva.

I was there early enough to check out the list and imagine my surprise to see my name on the list. One of my classmates who had done her Microbiology was there (although she had got admission for M.Sc.). What a waste I had thought. Anyway. I went for the interview. It went this way:

(I = Interviewer S = Satchi)

I: What have you studied?

S: I have done my B.Sc in Microbiology.

I: Then why do you want to do Journalism?

S: I did not get admission for M.Sc and thought this would be something that would interest me.

I: What newspapers do you read?

S: Indian Express and Poona Herald.

I: Poona Herald?

S: Sorry, Maharashtra Herald. (The name had been changed a few months before that).

I: Then why did you say Poona Herald?

S: Force of habit. Old habits die hard.

I: OK. How many columns does the paper have?

S: I read the paper. I did not count the number of columns.

I: So what do you read?

S: I read who died, who murdered whom, Mandrake the Magician and Mickey Mouse.

I looks like he wants to leave the room and take in some fresh air (or at least I think so).

I went home and was again faced an inquisition. When they heard what all I had answered, all hell broke loose and I was told I could forget any hope of getting on the course.

Next day I went to look for the results. You could have knocked me down with a feather when I found my name on the list of people selected. My friend was also selected and I was happy, I would have my close friend with me in this course.

The course started. I went to class and took my seat. The first lecturer walked in. He was the editor of a very reputed Marathi newspaper. (He was also the one who had interviewed me).

The first thing he did was look around the class and said "My God, this class is full of girls. I do not feel inspired at all when I have to teach girls, because you will do the course, quit and get married". I was shocked.

After the class was over, there were 5 minutes for the next lecturer to arrive. I thought over my course of action. I could not bring myself to learn anything under such an MCS. My mind was made up. I went straight back home and decided I did not want to be a student to this kind of a teacher. My friend later on told me that they had made him eat his words packed in newspaper covered with printers' ink.

Well, I could say "My Loss". But that is in retrospect. May be I was never destined to be a journalist. My name is not Barkha Dutt. May be it could have been Geetanjali Aiyer.

P.S. My friend finished her journalism, did her B.Ed and has been teaching in a school for the last 25 years.

Once a Killer, Always a Killer

"Killing a mouse could get you 5 years " says the Times of India dated May 11, 2011. Hmm..... I can now safely say I think "and rightly so" when I read that headline. No creature deserves to be tortured the way lab animals are and put to death at the whim and fancy of any random scientistl. If humans have a right to life, so have animals. I am certainly pro-life and in favour of animal rights. I am no longer a researcher. So no reason I should be on the defensive.

Long ago shortly after the sun, moon and the stars came into existence, I had a brief fling with science and research. What I had to do for a living was not what I was entirely comfortable doing. There was a conflict between scientific practicality and human emotionality and sentimentality.

But late in the evening my smirk was wiped off my face . I was hauled over the coals  by a certain member of the medical fraternity for the cold blooded murder of a mouse which he treasured very greatly. It had been tortured badly and struggled and suffered at my hands before it gave up the ghost. The headlines in the newspaper flashed in my mind's eye. Mouse dragged along the floor by its tail, hit on the furniture mercilessly, sat on, dragged from the table to the floor before being put to death.

You have guessed it right. This was a mouse of a different species, not furry and white  as you may think with a pink nose and whiskers, but a black one, hard in texture as well as being a part of the hardware of dh's favourite companion - the computer. 

I can't help it if this mouse has a tail which is a few metres longer than its little body. I sit on my bed propped up against pillows working at the laptop. At 7 pm, my mom comes along and wants me to migrate to the front room to watch telly with her. But I can't bear to part with the laptop and with the Internet. So I get up, pick up my laptop and set off. I forget the mouse, which drags behind me, falls off the bed and then drags behind me a step or two before I realize what is going on and pick it up. After a couple of months of such torture, the mouse obviously breathed its last.

It was replaced by another mouse which was dug out from the drawer. But the old mouse did not have long to live. It was of course old. But fate had decreed that it would stop working only after I had laid hands on it. So finally today I was given an ultimatum this morning. If I tortured mice like this, I did not deserve to own one.

I have spent the whole day having vivid images of myself behind bars for the next 10 years - 2 X 5 = 10. Mercifully I was given a new mouse. I keep my fingers crossed and hope I treat this one better than the other ones. But I don't trust myself. Old habits as they say die hard. Once a mouse killer, always a mouse killer, no matter what the species. Yes, I have a dark secret - a skeleton in my cupboard you may say - I am a serial mouse killer.

So if I vanish off the radar, you know where I have vanished to. Meet you after 10 - 15 years! 

Help I'm Going Nuts

"So what's new about that? Where is the question of going nuts? We all knew you are already confirmed, raving, hooting crazy and just humour you out of the milk of our human kindness" did I hear you say?

Please, please, please don't say anything about "milk"  and I think I should refrain from the word "nuts" too. Every morning I wish I could crawl back under my blanket and remain safely ensconced from all the harm and damage that food and air could do to me. DH was threatening the other day to have me shipped to the nearest loony bin if I continue this way and keep being paranoid about everything in my environment.

Tell me, what else could any sane person do? First thing in the morning you have a cup of coffee in your hands and a newspaper in the other. The newspaper does not bring any good tidings and what's more it brings some horrendous news. It tells you that you should go and chuck that cup of milky coffee down the closest sink. It is full of hormones and antibiotics that were fed to the cows and if you drink that milk, you will soon start resembling one . I decide this paper is no good and switch to the other. The other one tells me that unless I eliminate the coffee completely and drink the milk neat - maybe upto 4 cups a day - my bones will be seriously unhappy with my attitude and take me to task . Which paper do I listen to ?

Come lunch time and I am faced with another dilemma - veggies. They have chemicals sprayed on them and some of them liked the taste of the pesticides and soaked them in completely (to stave off pests like me, who love to eat them up at the least provocation). So now if I eat those vegetables, then I might land up being eliminated. I took care to buy the most attractive looking carrots on the market the other day, only to be told that dyes are being injected to make them look colourful and attractive. So I can't eat them. And if I buy organic stuff, then I run a serious risk of ingesting some parasitic cysts and may land up with cysticercosis (parasitic cysts lodging in my brain and gnawing away at whatever little of it is left, bit by bit). The proverbial choice between the devil and the deep sea, or between the rock and the hard place or Hobson's choice (at least I am giving you so many choices here - something that is entirely denied to me these days). 

Now white rice, which I love is not a good choice, or so I am given to believe. In fact eating rice will make me fat - so the dietician at the nearest health spa tells me. I may eat only fruits and veggies, which takes me back full circle to where I started off. 

Eggs could cause salmonellosis, contained devastating amounts of bad cholesterol and were bad for the health . But this week, their cholesterol content decreased and are at latest count indeed very good for the health. Suddenly this week the Vit D content of eggs has also increased . I wonder if the NECC (National Eggs Coordination Committee) or the Venkateshwara Hatcheries have anything to do with these new improved eggs!  . 

By the way, wasn't alcohol supposed to be injurious to the health? Yes, indeed, until the French secret of healthy, active and loving hearts was traced back to all the red wine they drink. No wonder we were told it was not good for health. The French wanted to reserve all the wine for themselves.

But hold on, alcohol was also known to be the cure for all sorrows, until last week, when it was decided it increased one's sorrows.

Hey, you scientists out there! Can you make up your minds once and for all? Why the hell do you not keep your research to yourselves? Oh yes, unless you publish your findings and send the unsuspecting public on a roller coaster spin, you don't get paid, do you? That is why I gave up this profession and vowed not only to live happily ever after but (as far as I am concerned) to let the general public do the same. But I should have done more. I should first have discovered a selective bomb to wipe out all researchers, quit my research career (I have to foolproof my safety you see) and then hurled the bomb at the remaining scientists.