Dawn

A change in vocabulary

2008-12-04T18:45:34Z

Once upon a time in a fairytale land, little kids made walkie-talkies out of match boxes bound together by rubber bands and played Star Trek. They brandished sticks at each other and played Shivaji and Afzalkhan. The ultimate adventure was chasing the bad guys while playing Chor Police with squirt guns.

Today little kids still play games in the fairytale land. But today they tote complicated looking contraptions in the guise of toys – ranging from multi-player battle systems with special weapon activations and blast attachments, to recon equipment replete with dual-mode light beams for night-time accuracy, to almost life-like spy detection and attack gear. They snort when asked if they’re playing with guns. After all, it is a naïve question in a world where children can hold intelligent conversations about AK-47s and RDX.

Ah yes. That’s what we’re dealing with today – a completely different vocabulary that children have come to terms with, but that the adult India, and the world at large, is still grappling with. The first time most of us heard these terms was in 1993 when multiple bomb blasts shook Mumbai for the first time. Then the riots broke out and our world changed – forever. With lightning speed, we were propelled into this whole new era that threatened to exterminate the old, carefree life we knew. And we were completely flabbergasted. Because all of a sudden, a simple act of wanting to drink coffee at a fancy café could kill.

With so many changes happening around us, we started using newer words – words that were taboo or only existed in a filmi villain’s parlance. Tongues wagged freely, curses flowed, and it was suddenly okay to talk about weapons of mass destruction in high-end living rooms. Tomorrow might even herald a new era for restaurants, with menus featuring delectable delights like killer kachori and blasting burgers, and our children might not find anything bizarre with this nomenclature.

But will the little kids who made walkie-talkies out of matchboxes ever be ready for such a tomorrow?

Chow Chow Bhat

2007-02-18T20:07:41Z

It must have been some 15 years ago when I first came across what is known in southern India as Chow Chow Bhat. It was while having breakfast in Kamath - that culinary institution which has served staple South Indian vegetarian cuisine through its restaurant chain for years, in the then sleepy and little-known garden city of Bangalore.

It was then, while looking for something “different” to eat on the menu, that my eye fell on Chow Chow Bhat. Thinking it must be some unique Indianized Chinese breakfast creation, I eagerly called the waiter and asked what it was – to be told that – hold your breath – that it was a special entrée made of upma (a spicy semolina concoction) and sheera (a sweet made from semolina)! Horrified to hear upma and sheera being mixed together, I didn’t even bother to clarify whether it was really so. For years after that I refused to look at that line on the Kamath menu.

It was only recently, maybe a year before we got married, that Sam asked whether I wanted to eat Chow Chow Bhat. My agitation, and the subsequent explanation made him laugh hard, and still gives him a reason to tease me. So finally, years after I’d asked what Chow Chow Bhat was, I got the answer. Yes, It is a special entrée made of upma and sheera. But as Sam says, who in their right mind would mix them? It is a platter of a helping of upma alongside a helping of sheera! So today morning, when he said let’s make Chow Chow Bhat, I smiled to myself, and said, yes let’s.

Upma

Ingredients – in order of appearance

3 tsp ghee

1 cup rava (semolina)

2 tbsp oil

1 tsp mustard seeds

¾ tsp hing

1 tsp urad daal

4 curry leaves

1 half-inch piece of ginger minced

2 dry red chillies chopped

1 onion chopped

¼ cup green peas

2 cups boiling water

2 tsp salt

½ tsp sugar

Grated coconut & chopped cilantro to garnish

Heat the ghee in a frying pan, roast rava till it turns pink, and keep aside. Heat oil in another pan, and add mustard seeds. When they start sizzling, add the hing, urad daal, curry leaves, ginger, and chilles. Let fry for a minute, then add the onions, and fry till they are soft. Then add the roasted rava, green peas, boiling water, salt, and sugar. Stir, cover the pan, and let simmer for ten minutes. The rava absorbs the water and becomes nice and fluffy. Garnish with coconut and cilantro before serving.

Sheera

Ingredients – in order of appearance

2 cups milk

½ cup ghee

1 cup rava

1 cup sugar

¼ tsb saffron mixed in 2 tbsp warm milk

2 tbsp raisins

2 tsp charoli/ chironji

½ tsb ground cardamom

Pour the milk in a saucepan and bring to boil. Heat the ghee in a frying pan, and roast rava till it turns pink. Add milk to the rava bit by bit, while stirring the whole time. The rava absorbs the milk, and expands. Cover with a lid and let simmer for five minutes. Then add the sugar, stir and cover again for five minutes. Add the saffron milk, raisins, charoli, and cardamom. Turn off the heat, and let sit for five minutes.

Makes for 4 servings of Chow Chow Bhat.

bits of my wandering mind...

2007-02-04T21:56:17Z

Starlit beaches. Azure skies. Shared secrets. Gurgling laughs. Dreams get drenched in the unstoppable rains, emerging crisp and clean in the sunshine that follows. Unconnected sentences like disparate parts of a modernist painting - making it whole in a completely unexpected way.

...Just like my thoughts. Bits of my wandering mind...going back and forth between what has passed and what is yet to pass...between the could-have-beens and the still-can-bes...between the decisions made and ones yet to be made...

...between me now and me then and me two years from now...

And if this doesn't make sense, that's fine too. Because memory is like an itinerary...sometimes travels a lot without much planning, though well, itineraries are supposed to be planned and all that.

Well...so on this particular roller coaster journey into my memory, that I absolutely insist spans the whole 28 and half years of my existence, I find myself in puddles. Yes puddles. Accumulated bits of discarded thoughts that don't fit anywhere else. And so they congregate amongst themselves. Stick together, hang out, and sometimes mock me. For discarding them because they didn't fit. And not discarding them wouldn’t have let me fit. But as they say, everything that goes around, comes around. And so they're back. To make me own up...

And one day I might just...but until then...

Bombay Blasts 2006

2006-07-12T04:04:51Z

Anger...Outrage...Shock...Sorrow...

Words fail here. My struggle with myself - for peace and against violence - tethers on the brink of uncertainity. Violence cannot be condoned anymore. Justice has to be done. Yes, it's time.

My perfect major :)

2006-02-24T23:03:28Z

You scored as English. You should be an English major! Your passion lies in writing and expressing yourself creatively, and you hate it when you are inhibited from doing so. Pursue that interest of yours!

</td>

English

100%

Linguistics

100%

Journalism

100%

Sociology

100%

Anthropology

75%

Art

75%

Theater

75%

Psychology

67%

Philosophy

58%

Dance

58%

Chemistry

25%

Mathematics

25%

Engineering

Biology

What is your Perfect Major? (PLEASE RATE ME!!<3)
created with QuizFarm.com

Snowstorm

2005-12-08T01:34:32Z

Sky darkens. Wind howls. Leafless trees sway. Dried brown grass ripples. Temperature dips till even the layers and layers of warm clothing can’t keep the cold from seeping in, gripping your limbs and numbing your senses. And then, all of a sudden, cottony flakes drift from the stormy gray clouds above. And suddenly there is nothing cottony about them anymore. They resemble big white monsters with tiny fists, aiming a blow at you whenever they get a chance. Ah yes, welcome to a nice old-fashioned snowstorm!

Voices from home

2005-12-06T19:56:39Z

Voices from home have a rather startling quality. They shake you out of your stupor and make you take them seriously. They remind you of the faces they are associated with and the personalities they call their own. They paint a picture of warm fuzzy afternoons spent lazing on the slightly damp grass under the shade of oaks and peepals, with a light breeze blowing through their thick leaves bringing with it dancing sunrays, some shining with crystal-like radiance, and others filled with twirling particles of dust. They remind of you of almost forgotten evenings spent walking along the sea face at the tip of a bustling metropolis, savoring the occasional surf hitting your face and the salty tang it leaves behind. They remind you of following the journey of that merciless ball of fire across the sky till it reaches the horizon, spent of its fiery fury, and now bathing the city in a warm orange glow so heartrending and mysteriously breathtaking, that you almost forgive it in spite of sweaty palms and parched throats.

But above all they remind you of you, maybe even a slimmer, younger you, dreaming of a glorious future, and inwardly smiling in delight at all the secrets it holds, that you are looking forward to discovering. And they remind you that the smiles were not wasted, and though some dreams are still dreams, others have somehow, maybe even in a lopsided way, come true. Yes, voices from home have that startling quality, of making you look back…and smile…and feel the old you smiling back.

What's Hot, What's Not

2005-11-27T06:13:00Z

...Well Salaam Namaste's definitely not, and here's my take:

Salaam Namaste. Two words that really mean the same thing. Yet don’t mean anything at all in the context of the movie. The latest offering from Yash Raj Films has all the glamour of the Chopra films - breathtaking locales, more than merely hummable songs, good-looking actors, designer costumes, and even a sizeable dose of humor. Yet it falls flat, looking delicious like a mouthwatering concoction on the glossy pages of a cookbook, yet tasting bland and unappetizing.

Written and directed by debutante Siddharth Raj Anand, and produced by Aditya Chopra, the film begins on a promising, though not really a novel note. A boy and a girl. Both, independent, rebellious, ambitious, and really fun to be around. Dislike each other without ever coming face to face. Dislike turns to like when they meet, and like to love when they decide to take their relationship a step further, and actually live together, and this then forms the central theme of the film.

Living together is still taboo though increasingly prevalent, and not even a Bollywood film seems to know what to do once the characters are safely ensconced together in a beautiful house with a fantastic view. This is the biggest downfall of the movie, that it has let a theme that does not even warrant much screen time take up most of it. And it’s not even like the theme’s new to Bollywood. It was seen as early as the 80s in movies like Ijazat, in the poignant love triangle of Naseeruddin Shan, Rekha and Anuradha Patel.

And so no matter what Saif Ali Khan and Preity Zinta do to salvage their onscreen characters, Nick and Ambar, and no matter what the script and direction does, the film just seems overawed by its own theme, faltering in its steps.

The film seems satisfied in just having broached a not-so-common subject, and promptly forsakes any effort to actually deal with the various manifestations of this relationship. Nick and Ambar do decide to live together, and three months down the line find themselves pregnant. Nick does not like kids, Ambar does. But nowhere does the film strive to establish their characters firmly; they seem utterly bewildered themselves when they voice their opinions and act upon them. Nick’s dislike of marriage and aversion to commitment just give the impression of childlike stubbornness, with seemingly no logic behind his insensitivity towards Ambar. Ambar’s cry-a-baby portrayal in the second half of the film is completely opposed to her high self-esteem and self-reliance.

The film has failed to make good use of its promising ingredients; for starters, actors like Saif Ali Khan and Preity Zinta. But even good actors cannot deliver a convincing performance without a tight screenplay and deft direction. These might just be slips of a first-time director, who can yet redeem himself in the future.

The musical score by Vishal & Shekhar though not exemplary, is nonetheless fresh, and wants to make you shake a leg. Supplemented by Jaideep Sahni’s funny and quirky lyrics, it is no surprise the songs are a hit. On the acting side, Arshad Warsi and Jugal Hansraj as the couple’s friends are good, but could have been better, while Javed Jaffrey is simply unbearable a mere 5 minutes into his act.

On the whole, this is one movie that simply hasn’t gotten its act together. And though it is worth investing in the music, the movie’s not your money’s worth.

Good things :)

2004-11-18T06:33:11Z

It was not a very long time back that we met...or was it?

21 years can be a long time to gather memories. Yet all I can now recollect is a smile, a look, a prank, a dance step, a giggle over muddy hands. My memory is curiously devoid of anything else.

Yet things have a knack of falling in place. Jigsaw puzzles sort themselves out. Things happen, not merely because they are meant to, but because they are put into motion eons ago. The universe conspires to make it happen, some say. Maybe they are right. Maybe not. I don't know.

All I know is that it did happen. It took 21 years, but it did happen!

The story of a story

2004-08-13T05:23:54Z

The clutter in the room slowly seeps into my brain and blocks out all thoughts, stems imagination, stumps words. Those that manage to flow from the pen are bewildered, like newborn babies. Their world is a blank page they find themselves on, without companionship, without understanding. They can no longer escape into the cozy confines of the refill. They have to go on, stumbling, making their way to an unknown destiny. And that is how my story takes shape. By itself, on its own accord. The clutter in the room has nothing really to do with it!

Homecoming...

2003-11-07T01:26:45Z

"Home is a complicated word. It can mean your birthplace, or simply the current address on your driver's license. Or it can mean someplace from your past that has lingered so powerfully that it is braided into your DNA. A place of love, sometimes of loss, to which you feel a longing to
return." ~ Sunset, November 2003.

What does it mean to you?

To me, once home meant wide open fields behind my uncle's state government bungalow in a small, nondescript place in rural Maharshtra called Palghar, whose only claim to fame lies in being the town closest to the once-pristine, now-spoilt Kelwa Beach. When I was six, my uncle moved back to Mumbai for good, to the relief and joy of the whole family, which never really savored the diesel-fumed bumpy drive to Palghar, sometimes in jeeps, and at other times in stinky state transport buses, or the town's wonderfully muddy backroads that turned to delicious chocolate-like slush at the tiniest hint of rain, or the endless litter of cats and dogs that had the free run of the house, the garden, and the orchard beyond.

The house itself, a remnant of the colonial-era, was designed between two huge verandas, of which the one behind needed regularly to be smeared with cowdung, while the one in front gleamed with ageless red tile-like stone flooring. Into it was fitted permanently a large blue armchair, with wooden arms that folded into it and welcomed me into their embrace everyday. Once I remember getting up early in the morning, before the entire household hustled around me and bustled me out of their way, and sitting in the armchair listening to the early-morning songs of
birds. Sunlight wasn't yet filtering through the surrounding trees, but there was a golden glow all around, making that moment my very own
magical secret.

And there were many more secrets I shared with the place. I also had a keeper of secrets in the person of Yeshwanta, the gardener, and together we zealously guarded the numerous places I hid my treasures in. But even Yanshanta, as I called him, did not know how I carved my name on a chikoo seed, and buried it deep in the rich, wet earth, certain that all fruits on the new tree would instinctively know me. Neither did he know how the flower garden just across the house, with hedges taller than
me, and flagpole in the center, was my idea of a perfect paradise, where I prayed that I never had to go back home.

But too soon the holidays would come to an end, mangoes would disappear from trees, and aai would haul me back to Thane, only to wrap me up in a brightly-colored raincoat, and pack me off to school, all damp and uncomfortable. Then would start an agonizing year-long wait. But that last year was different, for there was no going back, so I was told.

All my pleas fell on deaf years, as I defended that one place in the world where trees would light up with fireflies every night, making it seem like an unending Diwali party, where I could lie on my back in bullock-carts while gazing dreamily up to the starry night sky listening to all the enchanting stories of far-away worlds that a 15-year-old tai had read somewhere, and where the air was so pure and crisp that it stung my nostrils to just breathe it in.

My uncle soon moved back to Mumbai, but interestingy enough Palghar didn't pass out of collective memory. A whiff of wet earth during rains, an unexpected patch of lovely green in the city, and the stink of dead mice that cloaked the neighbor's cat would lead us down the road where memories still lingered. I think we all realized that Palghar had been drilled too powerfully into out minds to try shaking it off. And soon even those who had been vehemently against it started loving it.

There is something magnificent about memories; they don’t betray us like our present, they are ever-faithful and unchanging. And as time goes by, they grow more majestic, more lovable. And somewhere along those sepia-toned lanes in old family photos, my home still beckons.

dawn @ 2003-10-16T17:30:00

2003-10-17T00:31:22Z

Come evening, pressure cookers start sizzling and making their merry music all around me. The ammas and appas come back from their daily evening walks, clad in sweaters and monkey-caps. An adventurous few carry their digicams and camcorders to record the gaiety of American life around them, soon realizing that maybe it is not so American after all.

Right across the road from my apartment is ‘Chaat House,’ flanked by ‘Taj India,’ and 'Taal.' Across the intersection is ‘Bhavika’s,’ where hordes of Indian singles flock for their daily dietary fulfillment. Further down ‘Udipi Palace’ gracefully adorns a street corner, which is sadly not equipped to accommodate the fleets of gleaming cars that bear down upon it every weekend.

And yes, let me not forget ‘East&West,’ which rents out DVDs of the latest Hindi movies for a mere 50 cents, and sells everything from ghagra cholis to VIP luggage. The establishment also boasts of a tailor master, who resented my inquiry of when he would be done altering my cousin’s dress, and retorted, “Kab dega kya puchti hain? Zindagi ka hi bharosa nahi. Koi mar gaya to jana padega na. Phir dress kaisa alter karega!” (How can you ask me when I could finish altering the dress? Life is strange. If someone dies, won’t I have to go there? Then how can I alter your dress?)

Most of the times, I am mesmerized into believing that I start out on El Camino Real, and end up in Shivaji Park, that my Sunnyvale neighborhood in the heart of Silicon Valley is really a meandering alley in Hindu Colony. Reality mingles with fantasy as English, Hindi, Marathi, and Tamil assail me from all directions. Aroma of fresh samosas wafting out of snack shops blends with ghazal strains emanating from an open car window, even as the American flag smiles benignly from high above.

And that’s when reality strikes. The highly dramatized myth of Indian imperialism in the U.S., especially in Silicon Valley vanishes as my car hits the interstate (or freeway as it is known in California), and becomes just another part of the faceless traffic. Indian cultural pockets, forming as much as 10% of the total population in places like Sunnyvale, and happy in their self-imposed isolation, however don’t care.

We didn't care about the recent recall drama, and neither do we care about the potential policy changes it might effect. And why should we, I am asked. Yet, we want our H1-B's, our green cards, and even a chance to become citizens. Many say that while taking the citizenship oath, all they keep on thinking of is 'Jana Gana Mana,' and the tiranga. I say, I better not hear more!

Suddenly a ripple of laughter breaks through my reverie, and I look out of the window to see all the ammas and appas congregated in the parking lot, forming a senior citizens club of their own, promising to keep in touch after going back to India. And I suddenly know which route I want to go!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2003-04-02T15:02:43Z

i haven't updated in so long....in fact it's been so long that i was in the danger of forgetting my online identity....like some twist to multiple personality disorder...or like email addresses....one has so many of them (ok, atleast i do!) that one can easily forget one of them....hehe....well, incoherent ramblings take center stage again!

and i'm sorry guys, but i don't wanna trade my journal....not that i actually understand what that means!! is LJ not letting people create new journals?

i really wanna do something creative with my journal....wanna integrate it into my web site....actually have been thinking of that for so long that acting on that sacred thought almost seems blasphemous...hehe...but i will get to it someday...

maybe that's why i don't feel like updating it....have been doing that for almost three years now....and it was in bangalore that i first came across it...it was a time when i was still lost in arundhati roy's "slanting silver slopes slamming into loose earth ploughing it up like gunfire"....it was a time when thoughts started coming to me in whole sentences (usually am too lazy to think them up myself!)...defining tiny moments in time....and live journal almost seemed sacred......many shared the view....and yet most of them have now disappeared from the LJ scene...

anyways, more practical things beckon right now....have deadlines to meet, and tax returns to fill out...

will be back when tiny moments in time feel like defining themselves again....

dawn @ 2002-11-20T12:04:00

2002-11-20T18:06:10Z

i finally got a car :-D

dawn @ 2002-11-13T00:37:00

2002-11-13T06:46:35Z

one day i was asked, "when do rebels stop rebeling?" that is like asking, "when do fighters stop fighting?" for over a year the question intrigued me. but today i have the answer. NEVER. life is beautiful, but people who do not need to struggle to realize that beauty, do not really know it fully. that struggle always stays with them; like a memory, like a challenge, like a constant reminder. it strengthens and it humbles. we all wait for that one life-defining moment. it comes quiety, without announcing itself. and without realizing, you find yourself enveloped in it. it's not long now...

dawn @ 2002-10-24T21:46:00

2002-10-25T02:46:48Z

i am ready for a change...

i am ready to go back home...

:-)

in-between...

2002-10-10T03:20:36Z

i have my own twilight zones. or atleast that is what i call them. i don't even know what they mean in the language of all normal, ordinary people around me. for me they mean an in-between phase or experience, since that is what twilight really is. maybe i am in one right now, since i seem to be floating in the deep realms of everywhere. everything is reminding me of something i have seen somewhere, sometime. i am neither here, nor there. i am simply put, everywhere. i can hear voices from india as clearly as i can hear my roommate talking on the phone. the 10 pm news is strangely reminiscent of the world this week. my non-drowsy tylenol has made me drowsy, and the chill of early fall has numbed my senses, but awakened my sensibilities. language, objects and smells seem to diminish around me right now. fleeting memories, shy glances, and forgotten bonfires zoom into focus. i feel like falling in love with this world all over again. what else is there to love?

dawn @ 2002-09-06T19:34:00

2002-09-07T00:34:19Z

ever since i can remember i was told that there is but one god. and that is nothing but the ultimate truth, the ultimate reality, that lacks phyical identity, but is an abstract centainty. i was told that god has been attributed human qualities so that it would be easier for people to relate with divinity. i was told that religion is a way to reach god. that being the ultimate aim of all religions, all religions are necessaily the same in essence. how then does it matter what religion i am? how does it matter whether i go to a temple or a church or a synagogue or a mosque? i am what i am. isn't that enough?

dawn @ 2002-08-30T14:40:00

2002-08-30T19:40:06Z

the fairy tale is over.
i feel free and empty.
knights of star trek, please beam me home.

how i simply need a car...

2002-08-20T21:35:05Z

right now when i am supposed to spend all my waking moments looking for an internship, i instead let the days slip by drooling over tempting used car ads. a few weeks ago i had my heart set on a tacky blue truck i would be terribly embarassed to be seen driving. i think of myself in every car that whizzes past me. sometimes as i walk home, i imagine myself to be crossing over to the parking lot to my brand new BMW X5. many times as i get ready to leave home, i know for sure that for once i am going to drive myself to school. yet as i open the door and behold an empty parking space, i smile, and gently chiding myself, go back upstairs to change into sensible walking shoes. the funniest part is not knowing what i am going to do in Fall, when i will have a beat to cover, and no car to drive around waco. but that's what makes life so interesting. not knowing what's coming next, not knowing how to handle the next disaster. i have even taken a liking to disasters of late. they have kind of turned me into a single-handed crisis management outfit. want to hire my services anybody? could do with a few extra bucks!

dawn @ 2002-08-18T15:37:00

2002-08-18T20:38:11Z

yes, i am writing after sooooo long that my journal feels almost new. like a brand new day i smilingly greet, like a brand new book i simply can't wait to read, like a brand new movie i breathtakingly anticipate.
over the last few days i haven't achieved much in terms of anything. i look at this phase of my life as a gestation period, when i cannot do much for the present, but instead pile up loads of everything for the future.
here's to a glorious future!!

dawn @ 2002-07-11T11:20:00

2002-07-11T16:22:37Z

my mom, chaitali, deeps and her mom are gonna see devdas tomorrow. i went to india with such glorious hopes of seeing it there, and when its release was postponed, my disappointment was almost palpable.

when am i gonna see devdas?

my world(s)

2002-07-06T20:56:03Z

the summer heat descends upon us early in the day and refuses to budge till past late evening. crickets frolic in the grass, and an adventurous few even venture indoors into our beautifully decorated (or so i think) apartment. footpaths and pavements become kerbs, while cars are denied petrol, and instead ply on gas. straight flat roads lead into the flat, unbroken expanse that engulfs us tiny beings. traffic hugs the right side of the road, while i still look to the right, and then to the left before i cross. they say old habits die hard. yet old worlds blend with the new worlds, and after a time the difference is hard to tell. yes, may it be texas or bombay, grass is still green, and skies are still blue.

home away from home...

2002-06-27T17:04:01Z

today i feel like putting it all down, everything that happened since i landed in mumbai. how the smells, the sounds, the ever intoxicating mumbai spirit enthralled me once again and wrapped me in its welcoming embrace. how i was bewildered the very first day to see all those i loved and all those who loved me. i missed them every second in the last ten months, yet the shock of actually coming face to face with them took me aback. how i let loose the flow of music i could not give a vent to in the last year, lest it release a flood so overwhelming that it would drown me. how i realized exactly what i missed in my life to really complete it. yes, chinua achebe was right. the ultimate aim of travel is to go back home.

i will be back in waco on tuesday. yet i know now that real happiness is where home is. my unending quest for happiness is finally over. i carry my home in my heart, and it will never leave me, wherever i might be. yes, i am home!

dawn @ 2002-06-23T12:37:00

2002-06-22T19:09:44Z

time to pack again!