Who would've thought?

First off, apologies to my readers. I'd unconsciously entered the phase where I felt like my thought process and thoughts are changing, and that I should wait till the change is complete. I just realized though, that I hadn't entered this phase willingly. I'd been pushed into it. And I got kicked out as unceremoniously for the same reason.

Reading good books/stories seems to have either of the following two effects on me. I either get inspired to write. Or I realize what a long way I have to go before I can write really well, and I clam up. The latter happened to me a few days ago, as a result of which I stopped updating my blog. Here's the reason. And now I've finally come out of it, thanks to another piece of excellent writing, which I will share at the end of this post.

As a writer, I have a tendency to write a draft and consider it my Mona Lisa. Rookie mistake. It's amazing what a world of difference editing can make.

Coming to the title of this post, most of you already know how much I hate cooking. The very idea of standing in the kitchen can bring an ugly frown to my face. When I came to Delhi for my new job, I found out that my new roommates all cooked for themselves. They are consummate cooks, who prepare round chapatis, yummy subzees and perfect dals for themselves everyday. I took one look at all their samagri and said, "Not me!"

After haggling with the maid about her salary, I convinced her to cook for me. I had to coax, cajole and yell at her to put in less mirchi, less oil and less haldi! But after all, it was worth it, because I didn't have to COOK! Or so I thought.

Yesterday, I don't know what came over me. I entered the kitchen with a knife and some vegetables in hand. I washed, chopped, sauteed and cooked, as if I'm a world class chef! I had full faith in my skills, despite never having tried to cook that particular dish alone before. Just a simple dal, but it turned out tasty nevertheless. More than anything else, the satisfaction of tasting food that remotely resembled ghar ka khaana was an amazing feeling.

So, now I've decided to cook more often. I'm sure a lot of my close friends have fainted out of disbelief. Oh and my parents too. I guess I'm just growing up.

If you managed to make it to the end of this post, you should definitely read this article. It's the one responsible for ending my writer's block!

Image courtesy: http://www.ecurry.com/blog/soups-and-salads/soup/simply-seasoned-red-lentils-a-taste-of-home/

Colouring therapy - it's a thing!

My first birthday gift has made it's way home and I've been busy trying to make good use of it. I got 3 colouring books, 2 sets of sketch pens, 1 set of colour pencils and a large box of crayons. No, this account hasn't been hacked by an 8 year old. I just love colouring. How old am I? I'll say :P and also inform you that colouring therapy is a thing. It's supposed to be soothing to fill colours in a weird circular design for hours together. Well, that's the cover story at least ;)

Honestly speaking though, I have this innate urge to create beautiful things. My hands itch to paint something, fill colours, mould something or just create something pretty. The tragedy is, God didn't give me the hands for it. Everyone in my family has been blessed with artistic capabilities, while the only thing I can draw is a cat. That too the one that sits on its hind legs. I tried to learn painting, but guess what? That too requires the ability to draw! I tried my hand at making candles, quilling, paper craft and what have you, but to no avail. I just don't have it in me.

So, anybody sweet enough to ask me "What gift do you want?", always gets the answer, "Give me something to colour, I love colouring!" This is usually met by a stare that says, "Ok, weirdo alert!", but I usually just ignore that. Since colouring a pretty drawing doesn't take much skill, I pretty much manage to make myself happy. I showed one of my latest creations to my Mom and she said, "Having trouble staying within the lines, are we?"

*sigh*

My first live match - IPL PW v/s MI :D

Not too long ago, I had professed my undying hatred for cricket. It runs in my family, this total disregard for cricket and "all the fools who have nothing better to do than watch cricket". So please don't faint when I tell you that I BOUGHT a ticket, took a BUS all the way to Nerul, and saw the Mumbai Indians v/s Pune Warriors IPL match on Wednesday. Not only that, I was also out on the streets after watching both India-Pakistan and India-SriLanka World Cup matches, celebrating just like any other cricket fan (or patriotic Indian). Oh well, seems like hatred doesn't last forever.

Now I understand why watching sports is considered a form of entertainment. Nothing can beat the thrill of watching a game live. Moreover, with thousands of spectators cheering and waving flags at every boundary or wicket, the energy is boundless. There were a few things that irritated the hell out of me, but considering that I'm not a huge cricket fan, I had a really good time. Here's my journalistic account of what happened.

The first thing that struck me when I reached Nerul was the large number of policemen. There were almost a hundred khaki vardis, eating and drinking at the nearby restaurants/dhabas. I have never seen so many policemen in my life! They were carrying weird plastic sticks, which resembled the toy swords of the Star Wars franchise. No wooden lathis of yore, I see! A half an hour later, two policemen casually walked past with 6 ft rifles, as if they're carrying toys. I imagined them taking aim from the topmost point in the stadium. I didn't know whether to feel scared or reassured.

Then of course, my pet favourites. Hawkers! I saw more than 50 of them, waiting along the edges of the stadium, in all ages, sizes and genders (wait, that's not right). From team flags, t-shirts, vuvuzela-lookalikes (equally annoying), whistles, to painting the team colours on your face, everything was on offer. Negotiations were happening all over the place, and money was exchanging hands fast, until the municipality jeep came by, with kids not very different from the hawkers themselves, chasing the hawkers and confiscating their wares. The most nimble ones would run and hide in nearby colonies, only to come out a few minutes later when the jeep was out of sight. The funniest part is that no flags, whistles, vuvuzela-lookalikes, chart papers or fake blown-up swords bought from outside were allowed inside the stadium. My friends most probably guessed right when they said that the "merchandise" collected outside the stadium would be given back to the hawkers. And that's how we were looted.

Wait, that's not the only funny part. We were informed that flags are available inside for free. Good for us, we didn't buy them from the hawkers at ridiculously high prices. However, when we walked in, only Pune Warriors flags were available. There were no MI flags! Not a big deal for me, I was anyway supporting PW. But it makes no sense! Some ingenious fans managed to smuggle MI flags and whistles inside, but it was definitely hilarious to see the PW flags being waved for any boundary or wicket on ANY side.

My chief grouse is against the PW cheerleaders though. The MI cheerleaders were blond, firang and dressed in short clothes. The PW ones were in Bengali sarees, south Indian dresses and something that suspiciously looked like a Navvari saree, but I'm sure it wasn't. Don't get me wrong, I'm not racist. But if you're a cheerleader, at least choreograph a decent routine and do it in co-ordination! Very very sad. No wonder PW lost. Who would want to win with such tepid encouragement. 

Speaking of tepid, that would be an under-statement for the soft drinks on offer. Not only were they warm, they were watery! And there was no drinking water available inside the stadium, although the guards at the gates were refusing to allow people to take in their Bisleri bottles, saying water is available inside. Drinking the weird coke to quench our thirst resulted in more sore throats and hoarse screaming. Very bad combination. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry when I realized that the only food I was going to get was popcorn. In the interest of full disclosure (thank you Dr. Sheldon Cooper ;)), there were food stalls outside the stadium, in the DY Patil college ground. Once we were in the stadium though, with hardly any breaks in the match, we couldn't risk missing a single ball.

Despite all this, watching the game live had my pulse racing. I was up, sometimes on top of my chair, to cheer EVERY boundary and wicket, irrespective of the team. Watching a match live also needs very skillful switching between the pitch and the screen. In the beginning I found myself looking at the screen instead of the pitch, since the screen is so much bigger. Then of course I started looking at the pitch till the ball was bowled and then at the screen to see if I missed anything. I wonder if binoculars would've helped. 

The screens showed us the SetMax screening and I was surprised when I observed a lag. However, it was for the best since most often people would get up to see if the ball was going to for a wicket or boundary and poor-short-me would miss the action. Action replay surely helped! Spotting Sachin was easy with his orange cap, but for the rest of the players, I needed some help. I knew when Bhajji and Malinga were bowling because of their peculiar styles. I totally lost track of the overs though. When you're watching a match on TV, there's so much background information being fed to you. At the stadium, I could barely even keep track of the score which was being flashed on a tiny portion of the stadium boundary. Still, it was fun to see the action live.

So, at the end of it all, am I cricket fan? Not quite yet. But I might not say the following when my brother is watching the next IPL match: 

"Change the channel! Now!"

Need v/s Greed - the highs and lows of being an illegal train hawker

Warning: Long post

While travelling by locals in Mumbai, it is a common sight to see vendors selling some or the other paraphernalia at the station or in the trains. Most of us never stop to consider the legality of this business though. Shweta, a 20-something hawker who sells ‘Ads’ nail polish for Rs. 10 a piece on the CST-Thane route says, “I don’t have a valid license to sell on trains. I also never bother to buy a ticket. ” Her profit margin is Rs. 2 per piece and on an average she earns more than Rs. 100 per day.

Besides travelling without a ticket, most train hawkers break another law. Under Railways Act 114(1), selling goods on trains without a license from the government is illegal. If caught, illegal vendors are tried in a Railway Court and as per the judge’s order, either fined Rs. 1200 or sentenced to six months imprisonment. While any government official can catch unauthorized train hawkers, only officials of the Railway Protection Force have the power to prosecute them.

Ramesh, a stationery hawker at C.S.T. recounts, “I have been caught by the police several times. I have also been taken to court and fined. At times I have spent a night in jail.” There is a darker side to the story however. Ramesh continues conspiratorially, “Sometimes, RPF officials pocket some money and let us off the hook. If in junior position, RPF officials take Rs. 20 to 30, and senior officials usually take around Rs. 50 to 100.”

Of late, middlemen have started collecting haftas from unauthorized vendors. They then come to an understanding with the RPF officials regarding their “customers”. Sandeep Gupta, a chikki-seller on C.S.T station says, “Everyday, sethji collects Rs. 250 from me and other hawkers. He then distributes it amongst the RPF officials. This way, we can go about our daily business of earning a living.” Elaborating on the role of the middleman, Sandeep said, “Jab bhi humko koi RPF wala pakadta hai, sethji humein chhudwate hain.” (Whenever an RPF official catches us, the middleman gets us off).

Despite paying daily hafta, Sandeep said that sometimes they are arrested and tried in the Railway Court. As a result, they have to cough up another Rs. 1000. Interestingly, most hawkers would prefer to operate with a license. Instead of paying daily haftas, and occasional fines, a license would enable them to operate at a much lower cost. Sandeep went on to state, “License milta kaha hai? Indira Gandhi ke zamaane mein milta tha. Ab toh milta hi nahi hai. Milta toh hum nahi lete kya?” (Licenses were issued during Indira Gandhi’s government. Now it’s impossible to get one. We would prefer to operate with a license).

Regardless of rampant corruption and continued loss of earnings due to hafta to police, and prosecution fines, many people continue to sell on trains. Suman, a chikki-sell at C.S.T aged above 50 says, “I have 3 boys and I don’t expect them to take care of me. My husband died 10 years ago. I’ve been doing this business since I was 20 years old. It brings me enough to survive. God has been very kind to us.”

In light of train bombings of 2006, security is a concern, as most unauthorized vendors have no ID proof. Sandeep Khiratkar, senior RPF official says, “I’ve been transferred here from Patna. There, I regularly registered complaints about vendors looting people. This is Mumbai. These are poor people. We have nothing to worry about.” Such a lackadaisical attitude is shocking to say the least, especially when a large-scale attack took place recently.

Issuing licenses to vendors who wish to sell goods on trains will stop the exploitation of poor vendors, for whom selling on trains is the only means of earning a living. It will also reduce corruption by RPF officials and drastically cut down on security risks.

The acid test

This is what it all boils down to.

It's been more than a year now, since I took the decision to leave my job and find my true calling. I had utmost confidence in myself and the world was my oyster. I gave exam after entrance exam, and rejected admission to several colleges, till I finally got the one I wanted. And there I was, living the dream.

And what a dream it was! I learned so much! Every day I would break my head over some assignment or the other, but I would derive consolation from the fact that my friends were going through the same. I did things that I never thought I would. I researched food journalism, created a radio show about stand up comedy and made a documentary about a thrash metal band! And I wrote. I wrote more than I've ever written before in my life. Most often the words wouldn't come. Somehow though, I'd manage to finish the assignment. The sense of accomplishment was always new.

All that is over now. It got over too soon. And we're all looking for jobs. Some have got what they wanted. Others are looking. I'm looking. And hoping and praying for something that I truly care for, to have an opening. 'cause I've spent the last 8 years of my life, doing something I absolutely don't care about. And I can't waste a minute more. To all my friends who're still jobless out there, and even to those who've got jobs they're not very happy about, I say, take a chance. Keep trying for something you truly do care about. Believe in yourself and your abilities. Believe in your capability to learn new things as you go along.

I'm still holding on to that belief. And I'm sure it's going to be severely tested in the coming weeks. But I won't lose faith. I have too much to lose if I do. 

No comfort

I found this poem in some old chat conversation that I had with a friend.. I don't even know why I wrote it.. I guess it was just one of those sad moments when writing a poem seemed to be the best way to let it all out..  Expectations to sadness,
Giving way resentfully to anger,
No comfort, no comfort,
From one friend to another,
Even well known enemies to surrender,
My heart tearing, little by little,
For every back to my face,

Suicide is cowardice,
This state is transient,
Yet no relief seems in sight,
No light at the end of the tunnel,
No sense that it is a tunnel,
Wandering in a stupor of melancholy,
Seek comfort in the smile of a stranger,

Dance with the whistling wind,
Sing with the tear filled echo,
Converse with the sleeping street dogs,
No comfort, no comfort,
Unknown thoughts giving way,
To unknown emotions searing,

Why does this happen to me
Why is it so painful
How does one reduce attachment to oneself,
How does one get to the root of suffering,
Fake smile does light up the mirror,
But no light for the heart in eternal darkness... 

On behalf of cats, I protest!

Picture this. A 90s villian sitting in a dark den, surrounded by his minions. He looks tensed about Inspector Vijay Singh capturing his latest shipment of drugs. "Kya karein uska", he asks. One of his minions reply, "supari dete hain". "Supari?", he asks, and a huge smile spreads across his face. "Pehle baar akalmadi dikhayee hai," he says, while lavishly stroking his big fat furry cat.

This scene can be found in any Bollywood movie in the 90s. The cat invariably belongs to a villainous gangster. Or someone who is evil at heart. Case in point being, the sadistic wife-beater husband no.4 of Susanna Anna Marie in Saat Khoon Maaf.

In contrast to this, in Hollywood movies, cats have a dignified portrayal. Even if they play short roles, they're usually playing the hero's or heroine's best friend. For instance, Italics in Runaway Bride.

Even Julie of Julie and Julia has a cute fluffy cat smelling all the good food that's being cooked. As an ardent cat-lover, I want to know why Indian film makers show cats as villians' pets? What's the underlying psychology? Are we still living in the dark ages where a black cat crossing your path is considered to be bad luck? 

Cats are intelligent creatures, who can sense moods as well as dogs. Plus, according to me, they're way cuter. As a cat-lover, it is my sincere request to Hindi film-makers, please show cats in a better light and dump the cliche of a cat being a symbol for evil.
 
Image courtesy: http://www.fanpop.com/spots/runaway-bride/videos/5014230/title/runaway-bride-official-trailer
http://www.maniacworld.com/cat-loves-his-corn.html