Evening Sunrise

The cold wind burst in my face and I woke with a start.

The warmth of late October mornings had turned to a nip as evening descended; the acceleration of the train only intensified the chill. I wrapped my scarf snugly around my ears and settled back for the remainder of the thirty-minute ride back home. It had been a long day at work and my realization that it was getting late had cut into the fun I had been having with my co-workers. I regretted the distance between my home and my friends, which seemed to get longer each time I thought about it.

These melancholy thoughts and a thousand others going on in my head, combined with the gentle rocking motion of the train and the steady rattle of the metal against the rails, started to lull me back to sleep...


Then I felt a tiny hand on my shoulder.

I had been hearing gurgling sounds off and on for a while, so I had already guessed that there was a small child in the seat adjoining the back of mine. I turned to look at the owner of the hand – and paused, startled.


Facing me was a baby girl with the biggest smile I had ever seen.

She was smiling so widely that her open mouth revealed her toothless gums and her eyes disappeared into deep lines. The joy in that little face seemed to shine a beam of light directly into my heart. I couldn’t help but smile widely back at her, and her face lit up even more as I did so. I held out my hand, and her tiny fingers clutched around one of mine.

She couldn’t have been more than a year old. Her hair was a mass of wild dark curls, and she had pierced ears. I don’t remember her eyes because they were completely eclipsed by that toothless smile, a smile as contagious as it was comforting.

The look on her face was one of complete, naked adoration. I don’t know what was it about my disheveled hair and sleep-laden face that delighted her so much, but in that instant I felt like this little person loved me more than anything else in the whole world.



We began to play peek-a-boo. Each time I would conceal my face with my scarf, and each time she would squeal with delight as I revealed myself. Each time I laughed as her eyes disappeared into the folds of her smile, and each time she seemed to radiate more joy than before. All around me, stone faces melted into smiles and tired eyes shone as this child filled the compartment with her vibrant energy.

In that train, late in the night, in the midst of pining for friends past and present, I had unwittingly made a new one, albeit one who would have forgotten me the instant she got off the train. She has been on this planet less than a year; I have no doubt that she will go on to live a wonderful life and make many more friends that she will remember and cherish, and who will cherish her in return. That cheerful demeanor and those adorable crinkly eyes will strike down more hearts than Cupid’s ever will. I hope she will have all the happiness she needs to keep her heart as pure and giving.

She will never remember the stranger whom she loved wholeheartedly for those thirty minutes. But I will never forget her. All young children give pure, unadulterated affection but few display it so openly, thus imparting it generously to those around - especially those in dire need of it. In that cold night, in the hum of the train’s rattle and the whir of a hurried, worried world too caught up in its problems, I came face to face with sunshine; and came away with the rays of a new morning already waking up my heart.

Update: No Update

Yeah, I've been busy of late. I have a couple of movie reviews written down but they'll have to wait until I finish my OWN film first!

In the meantime, here's a gem from Danielle Corsetto's webcomic, Girls with Slingshots (not for under-18s, sorry.)

Ah, those zombies. Everybody knows one!

Food Housekeeping: The Epilogue

On Sunday mornings, the first thing I reach out for, other than a steaming tumbler-davara of coffee, is the newspaper, with the extra supplements containing movie reviews and snail-blogs. (The latter is modern terminology for newspaper articles that seem to be fading into ignominy given the deluge of online journals nowadays, mine included.) It is left to a few noble souls like myself to keep the art of newspaper-reading-every-morning alive so the columnists can keep their jobs. Sigh.

My eyes automatically began to scan for an article by Baradwaj Rangan (whom I consider to be one of the Holy Trinity of the Sunday edition, along with Samanth Subramanian and L. Suresh) and Bingo! There’s one on mom’s cooking. Ah, Mi Madre la Magnifica. Visions of home-cooked peas pulao with palak paneer and chana chole, moong parathas with paneer-mushroom-capsicum gravy, mango thokku and curd, and the good old staple thayir saadam with baby onion veththa kozhambu …

However, my initial delight in reading the article soon gives way to thinking, for the first time since my vacation. It dawns on me that it is men’s “borderline psychotic obsession” with mom’s cooking (to quote BR) that makes my mother scream sacrilege every time my chapattis turn out anything but round. (And lets not get started on the part where I burn them to crisp black appalam-like somethings that crumble like cookies and taste like ash.) I find it hard to believe that a round chapatti would somehow make its way more easily down a man’s oesophagus (and to his heart, if the saying were to be believed) than one that’s shaped like an amoeba. A chapatti or any other solid/ semi-solid foodstuff has to be chewed properly, irrespective of its shape, but that is conveniently forgotten and all the blame is put on the poor girl who Can’t Match Up To His Mom’s Cooking But Nobody Knows That What A Guy Really Wants Is Beer. Okay, I made that last one up.

As for the First Son Religiously Fed Gajjar Halwa 24/7 – how come First Daughters never get that privilege? (Yes, I’m one.) Come to think of it, any daughter. Sure, we get our share of gajjar halwa too, but not before being preached to about all the hard work and ingredients that go into it, lest, God Forbid, we go for the rest of our lives without ever knowing how to make gajjar halwa for our children and, consequently, lose all eligibility for attaining Salvation. Many a times I’ve walked into the kitchen, deep in thought for my next script or whatever, and suddenly I’m faced with a barrage of questions from my mom testing my knowledge of the correct way of making sambhar. By the way, I managed to mention all the ingredients, except for the tamarind. (“It’s the first thing that goes in!” says my mom.)

So there, you have a pretty good idea of the tight spot that Indian mama’s boys have put future Indian mamas in. Apparently, my parents are under the apprehension that my lack of cooking skills, in addition to what my Disciplinarian Fried Food Hating Military Dad woefully views as a less than perfect figure, makes me less desirable bride material. Oh, did I mention the 5 Tenets that every Indian parent follows? They are: 1) Feed. 2) Feed. 3) Feed. 4) Discipline (this is where Dad butt in before Mom could say “Feed”.) and 5) Marry daughter off to Guy Who Doesn’t Mind Her Awful Cooking Since His Mom Very Sweetly Offers To Handle That – OR – marry son off to Girl Who Bloody Well Knows How To Cook Or Else.

As for being less than desirable, I’m sure Dad would be a lot happier if he knew there are guys who do hit on me, only they do it when his back’s turned. I haven’t told him yet, though, because he’ll most likely draw himself up to his full height and turn into the quintessential Ladki Ka Baap with a piercing glare that would make Gabbar Singh surrender. A sobering thought, though, is that these admirers exist for two reasons. 1) They Don’t Mind That I’m Bad At Cooking. 2) They Don’t Know That I’m Bad At Cooking. To the latter, all I can say is, lets just eat out and I’ll pay.

It is because of the Great Indian Sentiment Attached To Cooking that I can sympathise with the character Jess (played by Parminder Nagra) in Bend It Like Beckham. It was then that I realised that The Sentiment is apparently not restricted to the molagootal-making maamis that I’m familiar with, but occurs in every Indian household in the country (and other countries as well.) The mother berates her daughter for not being able to make perfect aloo gobi or round chapattis when all the poor girl wants to do is kick some … ball. (I’ve deliberately used the singular form lest this article is mistaken for a foul-mouthed feminist tirade.) I wonder if Sania Mirza too gets an occasional earful for being able to serve a tennis ball better than a shahi pulao.

I admit I’m no exception to the goodies-under-the-table scenario; I too have had my share of crisp medhu vadais and jalebis while Dad was out buying bitter gourd. (My ever-enterprising mother solved that problem too – she whipped up a very edible and tasty bitter gourd pachchadi made from jaggery, which I relish to this day. Needless to say, I don’t know how to make it.) And living in a hostel, I completely agree that nothing can come close to her culinary prowess. Every time I sink my unwilling teeth into upma soaked in peanut oil (yuck) or some so-called capsicum curry that seems to have potatoes floating in oil, I try some self-hypnosis by imagining I’m eating mom’s food, just to force down the damned stuff. It works, but only when I’m desperately hungry. I can only imagine what kind of cooking Harry Potter might have endured at the hands of the evil Mrs. Dursley that would willingly make him bite into a trick chocolate that might taste like anything ranging from earwax to smelly feet.

Sometimes I wonder if we’re been brought up as yet another generation of Mom’s Cooking addicts. My dad sometimes blanches when he sees the oil dripping off her puris, but that’s because he hasn’t tried our hostel’s peanut-oil upma since he very conveniently visited on a Sunday when, for a change, its steaming, delicious aloo parathas for breakfast. I can’t say I blame the hostel catering guys, most of them belong to nomadic families and must have learnt early on that they must eat to live, rather than us concrete-dwelling MC junkies who think it’s the other way round. (Atleast, that’s what my dad, who still proudly calls himself a village boy, says.) Their skills don’t match those of the guys down south who cater to us at weddings, the ones who can make us wolf down three varieties of rice, eight different side dishes, and six varieties of sweets, not to forget the grand finale of payasam followed by coffee.

But given that much is made of the Indian Mom’s Cooking, both reel and real (remember there’s even a brand called Mother’s Recipe?) I’m convinced that my cranium, and the craniums of every other Indian, is filled with saliva instead of spinal tap. Heck, I even bet it was saliva that we were floating in whilst in our mothers’ wombs. It’s only understandable that some unfortunate English scientist, who probably lived on marmalade toast and poached eggs all his life, would term it as amniotic fluid.

Disclaimer:

Since the author has been reading Baradwaj Rangan’s column for the past four years, any resemblance in the writing styles. while completely unintentional and coincidental. is quite possible. However, given the recent events involving plagiarism, the author wishes to clarify that there was a conscious effort to avoid internalisation (Four years of continuous reading! Come on!) Since BR is so good that the author is forced to write disclaimers in defence of both their writings, he should just proceed to ask for a raise.

Act 1 Scene 1

[Lights]
[Curtains]

I'm only twenty, but I'm already feeling the way I think I'll feel when I've had kids and grandkids and contentedly plotting the epitaph on my tombstone. Funny, eh, considering I'm a bachelor. NOT spinster, mind you, it's bachelor. I may sound like a victim of sexual stereotyping, but I honestly admit the word "spinster" brings to mind a grouchy old misandrist who knits sweaters by the fire, plays cards with other grouchy old misandrists and frowns at the pretty young thing next door who's all over her TDH fiance. Yay for gender equality. I'd say such terms are politically correct considering that in this age of metrosexuality, the lines between the genders so firmly drawn by our forefathers have been erased, if not altogether blurred. David Beckham has made it perfectly acceptable to be seen prancing around in your better half's innerwear and drag parties have moved from privately booked hotel rooms to practically right outside your door. I must admit that the sight of seeing strapping young men with Anne-Frenched legs and lacy brassieres (borrowed from us) peeking out of their spaghetti strap tops made our welcoming party in college something of a meteor shower.

Okay, back to me...I'm an eternal bachelor. Make that eligible eternal bachelor. I mean, I could do all that girls of my age are expected to want to do but keep it hidden, but my late grandfather has left behind an awesome collection of books... and I really can't afford to be disowned and lose my inheritance. So I keep that halo around my head in its place and roam around frustrated like a ghost who's haunting bungalows and vowing revenge, all for a shelf filled with dusty books that I'll probably put away in another shelf.

[Applause]
[Curtains]