Screw Social Networking

Hotmail, Gmail, Facebook and Orkut. These are the first four pages I visit along with Google news everyday and every time I logon to the internet. Email I understand and so can anyone. But these days I am really starting to get annoyed with the whole fb phenomenon. Its just too intrusive and too public. People meet you once and add you. You oblige and for eternity now they can get updates on you whereabouts and doings. These people could be a fellow back-bencher from 4th standard or a summer student or some random person you meet everyday. Many of these people are part of your life for short spans. And it does make sense to have them available for these short term purposes. But very few you want to retain for long term. A neighbour from last summer was great for last summer. Its about time that they moved on by this year.

As a way to just say hello and post messages to one another, fb serves a great purpose. May be it was even the intended purpose when it first began. When i first used it in 2005 it did just that. Over the years though it has morphed into this ugly know-all wannabe so much so that people now lead their lives with great consideration for fb opportunities as I like to call them. Fb opportunities are photos, videos, notes, blogs, links and just about anything created or accessed exclusively for the purpose of posting on facebook. I was was victim of this phenomenon too. For sometime I enjoyed posting links and videos that elicited response from my circles. But now I just dont care.

My network of friends has more people I dont talk to anymore, I dont give a shit about anymore or plainly never knew at all. And I dont want all of this. Soon the curtains shall come down on www.facebook.com/sandeepyad. So if any of you read this take a last look.

For those of you who matter, you get to read this or anything else here only because I want you to. I like knowing that only a good few friends get the info they need on my life or my thoughts.

To the rest of you, FUCK OFF!

365, 52, 1

Tall 15-foot glass windows looking onto Bloor Street.

People walking by are a great past time for the bored studier.

BMO, Scotiabank, TD and CIBC stand dwarfed by the CN tower.

In the forefront, the Varsity stadium lays through summer and the white bubble winter.

At the far end of Devonshire place, some cars pass by and occasionally the footballers run past.

Whatever the season, the joggers step on.

Cigarettes and headphones are two abundances of the college goers.

Clutters of bicycles chained on the footpath.

Linked arms, skateboards, skull caps and high heeled leather boots abound.

The parking enforcement comes by on their rounds.

Pigeons and squirrels completely urbanized are my best friends.

(de-)Evolution: Hair Gel To Hair Oil

I vividly remember. My mother would look her legs around me and get a grip. It was a smart way to hold a hyperactive little devil who hated what was to follow. Out came the blue plastic of Parachute and the thick goo or thin slime poured out depending on what the weather was like. What followed was a juggalbandi of howls and frets, one party fighting the other. I always lost. By the time the death grip was released my fully oiled hair reeked of coconut complicating the stickiness of all the tears that I wasted. This was the daily routine of oiling. I was four.

As time went on, learning tamed me. Somethings were better left unresisted. And may be that brought with it a certain pack of Smarties or Kinder egg. It was a fair deal. Suffering was rewarded. How subtle yet profound are simple things in life. This phase of learning though didnt last long. I was more of a man every passing day. One day it happened. My mother didnt recognise my voice when I blasted through the doors back home from school. Lessons ended, I was no longer a cub. The teen years were teen years. Change was the mantra. Especially changing everything that even remotely seemed to vindicate the lessons handed down from the adults, those darned adults.

Move over oil, welcome hair gel! Parachute gave way to a long line of contenders for the job of styling my hair. Notice that style is the keyword here. But before the the gel era, there was one occasion when the hair oil routine was broken. After a trip to the barber I wanted the mist-sprayer/atomizer that those fellows used to wet the hair. I realised this could make my strands bend any which way. That was the first acknowledgement of the need to style. This led to a tantrum and a misled father buying me a Silvikrin Hairspray Ultra hold. Yes, I used hair spray.

It started with a cheap jar of Man gel. Now I know that sounds shady and may even trigger humorous but untrue ideas. But that was the first hair gel I used. From there I moved onto Wellaflex. High school is plagued with such kind of standards. Everything had a defined best. Wella was the best for hair gels. That too was an ultrastrong hold. Haircuts had to be tailored to suit the use of gel. What would later come to be known in India even till as late as 2002 when I joined college, the 'dil chahta hai' cut now simply called spikes was already prevalent by 10th standard. Also I had my own take on the Ultrastrong holds dilute it with some water and get that slick look. What essentially I was aiming at was a Wet look.

StudioFx from L'oreal followed. It was a wet look gel. But either my cohort wasnt completely conversant with reportoire of hair products or my image was not consistent with a cool dude as one of the sad fallouts of the wet look gel was a question that was often shot at me quite innocently, why is your hair so oiled up? Much to my annoyance I tried to stop explaining that it all was about. I took my hair gel quite seriously. After some more tubes of StudioFx and may be even some DesignerFx I finished school and arrived in India only to be more aggravated my friends who had not experienced the hair gel. And so the questions of oily hair abounded. Ofcourse not everyone cared as many of the guys themselves had bathed their locks in oil.

The careless attitude that took me over in the later part of the first year lasted a long while or may be even to the end of medical college but in second year during a trip to Kuwait I did purchase Clairol Herbal Essence Hair Styling gel. That was the dawn of a newer understanding. Thick black locks are not forever. Grey showing more frequently made me to look at my hair gel with an eye of suspicion for the first time. Style gave way to worries of Healthy hair(yes I know hair is actually dead, but still). So for those occasions like the Hyderabad trips and the college days when I still cared to groom myself, this more conservative gel devoid of special effects like strong hold and wet looks served me for a long period.

The postgraduation period which was mostly time spent in the library, hair gel took a back seat. Although I lived in Toronto, the libraries of the University of Toronto provided a certain damn-care environment where what did you did was your own statement. And so I benefitted from the collegial confusions of those kids and dumped the hair gel into oblivion, till Akka's wedding. A bad 450 rupee Jawed Habib haircut later hair gel was needed to salvage the remanants. So it was Garnier Fructis hair gel this time. And it was pathetic, probably the worst hair gel I used even more so because it came in a small spray bottle like the one that started it all at the barber's shop. Luckily for me it leaked on the way back to Toronto and so found way to the trash can.

Now more than ever I understand that beautiful hair, flat abs and toned biceps are not forever. Just at 24 I start to realise that this body needs to be cared for or else I would find it taking a beating of a lifestyle which is still very erratic. In Los Angeles a couple of days ago I found my bava's Parachute. And on the way to the shower just emptied a blob of grey slime and rubbed it into my hair. The premature grey was starting to show ever more prominently. I was scared. And this time it was the death grip of my fears of losing my youth held me down while I lost the battle to myself. I oiled my hair. The circle was complete.

At 14 or 15 there are things you believe can never happen to you.

AK Afridi : Le Fin

Alright! I can now conclude the Afridi story. Its been three months since the $40 to charity that went off in the direction of a sense of trust I had in the Pashtun/Pathan tribes, and I havent heard from dear old Abdullah Khan Afridi. What started off as a request for $20 went as far as $35 and finally I gave away $40 to help the guy with the subway instead of walking in the December cold. Some saw naivete while others altruism. I for myself reasoned out that there was enough reason to trust that man to call me back if not for the money then for the sake of honour. He did seem honourable and probably is.

Three months on, those who laughed at my 'stupidity' feel vindicated while some others have pointed to the infinite possibilities of what might have happened. Everything from the guy never reaching a good financial position to return the money to my subsequent departure to India a week later. It does seem plausible that during the month that I was gone to India Afridi may have tried to get in touch with me several times and after 35 days of incommunicado gave up. It is also likely that he was just another conman who made off with my sympathy and money, though it does seem unfair to malign the man without knowing his true intentions.

It is amply clear that I am less willing to believe the second possibility. I argued in favour of taking a chance and that I may have fooled myself into being conned. I have decided to retain my faith in people despite it all.

There is some goodness left in this world.

PS

I meant to write a lot about the trip to India and all that transpired there but now its been too long and probably the details are getting fuzzy to make any good reporting. But there is a point of note though. 

On my way to India, as reported, I had some encounters with the CBSA here in Toronto. While on the last leg on the way back here, there was this jerk of a guy who I could easily figure had a great time being an asshole. He stashed away with this briefcase his jacket into the overhead cabin above his seat. An air hostess who was trying to accomodate another passenger's baggage moved his coat to the next cabin. I could see by then that the jerk was already hyperventilating since his coat was 2 feet farther away than he could live with. As soon as the flight was airborne he rang for an attendant and requested that his coat be moved back to his overhead cabin and the displeasure and "inconvenience" the other lady had caused him thus setting the submissive attendant into a tirade of apology. Tch tch.

Well after we landed in Pearson, at the mouth of the aerobridge were again the dearest CBSA. Funny this time though, they checked my papers and wished me a great day as i walked off while the jerk was held back. Just as side, he was white. You know when you get taken aside at airports like that, the passers-by have an annoying look they toss you. That was what probably ticked him off. He started giving the agents some attitude with the usual I am a citizen and i have rights crap. They didnt buy it and as I vanished on the escalator I could help the smirk that was starting. What you do comes back to you. 

Live From Heathrow

Started out of Toronto on the 29th afternoon. The trip to Pearson airport was uneventful. I was happy to find out that I could get from my address to the airport with only one fare. A normal taxi ride would cost me around $55 easy. So for $2.75 all the way to the airport was amazing. Awesome.

Anyway I checked in and got on into security. These days with all the scares they make you take off everything. Well this was the first time for me. I thought that they were doing this only the States but I was even more surprised to find that after the 2 hour wait at the security gate as I walked into the aerobridge I encountered a CBSA officer who asked to check my passport and the following conversation ensued.

Can I please see your passport and boarding card sir?

Sure.

Are you travelling alone today?

Yes.

What’s your final destination?

Hyderabad.

(Sees the Canadian immigration stamp on my visa pages and..)

Are you permanently residing in Canada?

Yes.

Are you going on business or personal or..?

Its my sister’s wedding.

Oh right. Sir as a rule you have to any (stutters)foreign exchange you may have. Any amount greate than

$10000 or equivalent should be declared with the CBSA.

I have $35 on me.

Is that enough to buy a (stutters)sandwich during the stopover?

Well it’d better be. A sandwich more than $35? I don’t think so.

Oh well thank you sir. Have a nice flight.

And funny thing was it was easy to see that only the brown men had the special appointment with these officers. Four or five of them standing there conducting mini interviews. This was the first time I experienced openly racial profiling.

I am ambivalent on the need for such inquisition especially after I have proved my credentials at earlier checkpoints. Either they should place a CBSA officer at the check in counters or they should inspect everybody. It is a little annoying when you are called aside. That automatically highlights the differences between people.

What annoys me even more is that these fools think they are doing a good job of covering up the real intent of their duty. You have to be incredibly stupid to think otherwise. Stop a random brown guy and start talking about forex limits and liquor control? What do you think we are, blind?

I think a lot of people do understand the need for constant surveillance. I support it to a certain extent. But it is the farce that they create which annoys me. If you have a doubt ask, I will put my credentials and facts before you and walk away. I have nothing to hide. When they do things like these, it automatically incriminates the persons of unacceptable behaviour in the eyes of passers-by. Or else why would any regular Joe be stopped and questioned by the authorities without specific actions prompting the suspicion. Simply unbelievable.

If you have something to ask, crosscheck or examine, please be my guest. And openly tell me why I have been singled out and the not the white guy next to me. I don’t care. As I said I have nothing to hide. And well seems like times are such that actions such as these are sanctioned in public safety and if scrutinizing me is going to make the public safer, sure avec plaisir. But please, please don’t insult my intelligence and take me around in circles.

Well I guess there is only more to come that way. Later this year a trip to the US is on the cards and more profiling, discrimination and insult.

Anyway the flight from Toronto to Heathrow sucked. Two babies made sleeping as hard as rappelling. Saw Nick and Norah’s Infinite play list. Like that guy Michael Cerra. The characters he portrays be it Juno, Superbad or NNIP, all of them have certain characteristics in common. He is always a docile, chivalrous, unassuming fellow who seemingly is very different from the teenager stereotype of American movies. I like that. I wasn’t a jock, stud or a playa. I was regular guy, may be even a nerd. And having such a character lead a plot is very interesting and easily digestible. Seems like stuff which really happens. At least to guys like me. He is an incredible actor, I think.

Food on BA is a curse. The AVML - Asian vegetarian meal was hot shit packed and served with a bun and some salad. Whoever supplies these damn meals should be shot. Of course after forcing one such meal down their throats. I think it was in Ratatouille, the French chef instructs the his little vermin protégé that a good chef always tastes what he cooks.

And of course the usual Indian guy who has to do everything possible to further downgrade the image we have. So there was this Indian lot at the security gate which was causing a lot of ruckus as it is, but after boarding the plane a dark desi bong guy with shitty long locks of hair falling on to his face ending in the aisle seat across and a row in front. Unbelievable this guy! He just wouldn’t stop staring. Next to me was this white girl with her English dad and of course ample cleavage to show. Not that it was worth boasting, I’d seen better, but still. Anyway so this horny bastard would find every reason to stare at her and the shameless uninhibited manner in which he did it embarrassed me. Yes I have checked out girls, and I checked this one out too. But then you stop. Not with this guy. And then of course the drinks. Already downed 3 or 4 Johnny Walker Red Labels. Any dumbass would know that this fellow was drunk. You had to see the disgusted look the cabin crew shot him every time he asked a different member for another drink. Yuck! Again intense disgust. When you are in the aisle seat you have to accommodate requests from the passengers on the other side when they want to get up and may be relieve themselves. But not this guy he lay there sleeping, dead as a log. A man on the inside gave up and propped himself up on the seat and leapt for freedom in the process almost cracking a guys laptop screen. And this wasn’t just once either. It is a pretty long flight, Toronto to Heathrow, and a young guy like me went thrice. So you can imagine what those 45-50 year olds with their aging prostates would have felt like.

Anyway I whiled away the remaining time watching The Matrix Revolutions. I can never tire of that series.

Down in Heathrow we were going to be ferried in buses to the terminal. The weather, it was around 3 deg C, was amazing. I just wanted to run around like it was a spring day. Anyway back at the terminal some more lines and checking. Up an escalator into another line. This was another first. I had never been security checked while on transit. Apparently at Heathrow they do the whole deal again. Before you are let free into the terminal, once again you pluck out those shoes, unbelt and de-pocket yourself to have a gloved man frisk/grope you in full view of everyone else. And what I saw here was just not the customary frisk they made sure all nooks and crevices had been palpated for negative findings. Luckily for me, the metal detector did not go off, so I was spared the honour.

Anyway after dressing up again, I walked around for a while familiarising myself. First times at transit terminals can be pretty flustering. Anyway went downstairs called dad and then CCR. The chat was interrupted by a Bangladeshi man who couldn’t figure out how to make calls. I tried explaining in Hindi but he still couldn’t understand and he gave up on me and left. After, I made a beeline to the place I had predecided on gracing.

Plane Food. Gordon Ramsay. Heard, seen and read enough about the guy to not risk letting go of a chance to eat at one of his spots. 9.30 am. Only breakfast was served. So have to leave my main course reviews for the return trip. For now it was Egg Florentine.

Eating begins with the eyes they say. And that’s the beauty of these hi-fi places. Eggs and spinach on half a toasted bun with some pepper and butter on top. Just the ordinary but made to look regal. Well I would be exaggerating if I said anything more than what was. It was eggs on toast and there are few ways any genius can reinvent it. But still got myself a window table overlooking the tarmac, pulled out Beach Boy and started reading. Well complete picture isn’t it. An English breakfast at Ramsay’s with a good novel. Only no one was taking pictures. I am brilliant act you see.

More damage to Indian reputation downstairs at one of the duty free stores. A sales girl just pitches a discounted chocolate box from Butler’s. Handmade, vegetarian, alcohol-free from a traditional Irish family business. Sampled a praline and moved on. Three desis, her next target, were ogling/orgasming while they asked the most ridiculous questions to make conversation with this agreeable lass. Will my girlfriend get fat if she eats these? Are there any nuts, my girlfriend has allergy? Ever heard of an Indian with a nut allergy.

May be but not the way this guy was asking. Anyway it was going to be Godiva gold ballotin for me. I had someone in mind.

Wi-fi. Isn’t that the norm? Internet access at places like the airport should be complimentary or at least dirt cheap. Not at Heathrow. I didn’t buy an hour at Pearson thinking $6.99 was a lot. But 5 quid for an hour in London. No thank you. So this has been blogged in word and posted at the earliest.

11.15 am. Another 2 hours to burn. Hopefully should go by quickly. Haven’t been allotted a gate yet. Gee I am tired, got to pee and crap. Pee I will. Crap we will see.

Next: Rendezvous with the Motherland and the brother-in-law.

Abdullah Khan Afridi

There is still some goodness left in the people of this world.

My mom used to say that whenever she came across a good samaritan or witnessed an act of kindness. Today was yet another boring day at the library till this happened.

I just finished a block of questions and decided to take a break with the Economic Times shouting itself hoarse with the whole Satyam fiasco. There was this guy I saw from the corner of my eye but I stuck to what I was reading. A couple of seconds later I couldntt resist lifting my head up as this figure was slowly and deliberately looming in my direction. So as I looked up I saw this guy who looked well South Asian lets say. He came over to the side of my table as I took out my earphones and braced myself for the encounter.

Can you speak Urdu?

No.

Hindi?

Yes.

Well if you dont mind can I just talk to you for a minute.

Yeah.

Bhaijaan My name is Abdullah Khan Afridi from Peshawar. I am an architect. Just got here a month and a half ago. I am living in London as of now and came over to Toronto to meet with my immigration lawyer. Unfortunately though this afternoon my wife lost her purse with all our money in it. We are stranded now as we dont have enough money to get back to London. I have my wife and 21 year old daughter waiting as I am out here looking for help. I am new in this place and I dont know anyone. I tried going back to the lawyers office but found it closed. Someone there said that there was a mosque somewhere nearby where someone might be willing to help me. As I was walking by, you caught my eye and I just thought that in this foreign land I will take a chance and ask you for help.

Yeah, I guess. What are looking for?

I am short of exactly 35 dollars. Thats all I need to get my family back to London tonight. I was hoping you could help me out with the money. I promise I will be back on Friday, not this one but the next, and I will come back and repay you. Trust me brother, I know its awkward like this asking around for money but I dont know anyone else here and there is nothing else I can do. I am Pashtun and mark my word, I will come back and return the money.

I think for a minute. The man seemed honest and well as always in these situations, I am easily persuaded.

All I have got with me are 15 dollars and thats what I can give you.

The man hesitates and looks at me for a bit.

Bhaijaan I am not here to ask around for money. I promise to return it all. I wish that you could please help me out. There is an ATM just outside. I would be very indebted to you.

Alright I was going to give him the money. I just was going to. Sometimes I am just sold on certain things. There needn't be any particular reason. I just do it anyway. And this was one of those. I got up and walked out the library.

Allah, Subhanawata'ala will keep you well and will never put you in bad times. I will pray for you my friend. Thank you. Thank you so very much. I walked all the way from Union to here. We havent eaten all day.

Well you should just take the subway to Union on the way back. Its too cold.

Brother that would cost money too. I couldn't. All I need are 35 dollars.

A Pashtun's word? Alright. Lets not talk about it anymore. I am giving you what you want and lets both forget it, I think.

Outside the ATM is a BMO. My bank is Scotiabank. I tell him that. We decide to walk over to Bloor and Spadina. I go inside get my jacket.

It is -22 C. As we walk he asks me if all the buildings there belonged to the university. I tell him they do. Even that most of everything between Queen's Park and Spadina, and Bloor and King are university buildings. He says he has seen Western and it was huge. Well UofT was in the centre of the city and so was actually smaller than some of the university campuses I tell him.

What are studying? Finished medicine in India. Final Year? No I have my degree.

Mashallah! Congratulations brother. It is a matter of great pride.

I guess.

I am an architect. I have two Bachelors degress from the University of Peshawar. But people here tell me that my degrees are invalid, that I am unqualified. It is maddening. I regret coming to this country. My sister-in-law, my wife's sister, would call us from Vancouver every week and tell was what a great life it was and that we were missing out. May be she hated us. My family runs a garment factory in Peshawar, we make leather. I have two brothers who live in Germany. But I dont know why I came here. Once a woman had decided on something, there is little you can do to change her mind. My wife insisted. You get screwed. I gave 47000 dollars US to the immigration consultant to get us here and now I realise its all waste. I wish I never came here.

By this time we reached the ATM. He says he will wait outside. I draw 30 dollars. I think if I should just give him 40 dollars and be done with it. Then again he asked for 35 dollars and thats what I will give him. Money clutched in hand I walked out.

Thank you very much brother. Thank you. I will never forget this.

He leaned forward and hugged me.

I will be back to return this money to you.

Don't worry about it. Its alright.

No brother I couldn't. Atleast on that pretext we will get a chance to sit down for some tea. Please give me your number.

I do. He makes note of it in the Arabic script. And then my name too.

He points and asks if that direction was South.

I pull out my wallet and give him another 3 dollars and tell him to just take the subway.

He hugs me again and walks off around the corner still thanking me.

I walk back.

It will always be tough. One half doesn't believe it at all. The other wonders how many times total strangers have helped me and so may be if I owed it to this man. Well I gave him the money he needed. Thats all.

People will tell me that I got taken for a ride. That I got conned.

I gave the man money, it wasn't so much to make feel the pinch yet quite a sum.

I wish for him to come back, that we do sit down for that tea and that I make a new friend.

I don't need the money.

I want him back just to prove to everyone, to myself that we still have honest good men who will help one another, friend or stranger.

I need that.

On Olfactory Obituaries

Gee! That took quite a bit, didnt it? Well anyway I have some good news and bad news. The quest that almost inspired a copy-cat tome by your truly familiarly title " A Suitable Boot" has been completed. To an exalted Vikram Seth, there shall not be any further need for legal recourse in Boy vs Boot. And thats just the bad news.

After weeks, no months, of idle surfing and contemplation I have finally settled on a pair of boots. Well I had to if I didnt want to be held under the Patriot Act (I dont think Canada has one! But knowing the States and my old Nike shoes the borders would have been blurred.)on charges for conspiring to suffocate innocent civilians and causing havoc. Those damn Air Max 360s got so stinky that after a day of wearing them in the library I had to choose between braving the cold winds from the open windows or suffering the stench. The cold won and gladly so.

So a week ago, with renewed resolve after an self-degrading introspective bitch fest with Tharan on how stupid each of us were, I set out to the Bay as a last resort to find anything that could relieve the suffering of the genteel Torontonians. The store was pretty busy with no salesperson ready to help me right away. Looking around I chanced upon those cursed Timbaerland Chelsea boots. Damn it! $170. Screw that shite. I didnt think I was ready to shell out $200 for a pair of boots. Torontonians arent that dear to me. SO moving on I found a pair of Rockport boots that looked interesting and asked the Joan for a size 10.5 which ofcourse they didnt have. See thats the course of being an average joe. Everyone's got the same size. Not of everything though! You know what I am sayin'. Well anyway the lady had me try a size 10 wide and well they fit alright.

Joan was this nice lady with a crisp British accent, I'd say in her late sixties probably fighting obsolescence and dementia in the shoe store. I just love it how oldies here never settle down and always keep themselves busy. Makes me sad though, to think of the irepparable damage I might have inflicted on her already atrophying brain when she caught a whiff of soggy fungus laden shoes while trying to put down a new pair of the Rockports I'd asked for. See first rule, never buy the piece on display and second rule, never buy shoes if they dont match. Well anyway even the other pair had some minor faults that my OCD brain found. But under intense pressure from the helpless citizens I settled for them.
Ups: Boots, Waterproof(tear! yes they truly are!, Casual look(definitely dont look like them 6" timbas you know, 1 day break-in period

Downs: Not Chelseas, take longer to wear, $170!!!! Damn!

See the funny thing was I have wanted to buy waterproof chelsea boots for a long time now. Just couldnt find them in India. And when I finally can (they were even available at the bay, well only one style, the timberland earthkeepers)in the last minute I applied the stupid logic that the elastic gores on the sides may eventually loosen and the shoe may not fit so well. Stupid I know!

Well anyway after months of research and debate with everyone including Mark, Murali's Russian roommate, I am now the owner of a proud pair, and cause of the celebration of hundreds of relieved snouts.


Obituary: The Hudson's Bay Co. lost a valuable pair of senile olfactory lobes in a show a true commitment to the nation. Joan is a proud grandmother and continues to proudly serve the Canadian people.

(Rajma Mere Aona) "Waise Sharmao Na"

(My Rajma Come to Me, Dont Be Shy Like That)

So its 1 30 am in the morning. Waise Sharmao Na - Shankar Mahadevan crooning to the troubles of Anushka Shankar and Karsh Kale. Fantastic album I must tell you. Anyway couldnt think of a title for the post. So whatever. Anyway just saw this movie called The Life Before Her Eyes. Uma Thurman sees something all the time and I have to tell you though, the intention seems to be there yet one more time execution leaves something missing. I think someone else could have come up with a better direction on the subject. This, as it was, wasnt very impressive. 

Anyway in the humdrum of living in Toronto, I am for the first time truly putting my culinary inclinations to work. And well believe it or not I am surprising myself. See when I cook, I dont have a set recipe or a procedure. I start with a picture in my head. This picture will be of something I know I really want to eat. Like say today it was rajma. I had bought a can of kidney beans a week ago and they were just sitting there while I was working my way with the lentils and other things. Well anyway at Metro the other day I managed to find a can opener like the one we had back home and thankfully I hadnt had to rob a bank. Man sometimes I wonder when such a simple thing as opening a can got so painful that it needed motorized hands-free systems and all. Anyway so here I was with a can of beans and a picture of rajma in my head. 

The other day fooling around youtube, I found this guy's channel. Vah re Vah.com. So its some desi guy with a 'bet your left nut' southie accent making a very genuine effort at rajma made easy. Honestly though, it is a good idea. Most vids are about 5 or 6 minutes long and he gives you the essentials. So this time like never before I decided to follow VrV bhayya or should I say anna. Armed with an allegedly seven star chef's advice, I head right into it. I had it all. I picked up some italian strained tomatoes on the way back with one onion, whipping cream and other essentials. One onion? These damned leaves here are so big. Like a small pumpkin or something. Believe it or not by the time I got cooking more than half the pot was this one onion, and they are spicy too. 

Moving on, I started like a good student of my anna with some oil in the pot. Got to tell you though I washing up afterwards thinking to me my Black & Decker rice cooker and that Betty Crocker pot are like godsend, couldnt do anything without them. Best $50 bucks I spent in this country so far. So with the oil heating up I dumped some jeera and the chopped onion in there. Wait for them to turn golden and then add some garam masala. Well sabji masal was my substitute. Havent managed to go by little India down on Gerrard St so far. Anyway this does it for my buds. Then it was the turn of the ginger garlic paste and the tomato puree. Added some water and set it to gather a boil. Anna said to add some water strained from cooking the rajma beans. I was using canned beans and I wasnt ready to poison myself with all that preservative BS. So tap water it was. 

See around the kitchen I am almost can look like a star. Sometimes I think that everytime I cooked if I had a girl watching, I could do everything right to get her going. You know what I'm sayin'? So while the masalas gathered some steam I washed up the rice and set my B&D to the task. I washed up some corriander and chopped it up. Garnish man! Presentation is the strength of a good chef. By the way, I didnt know it was called cilantro as well. Or maybe I knew it but who cares to remember these things. So the corriander was ready. And so were the beans. Had washed them clean of all that slimy canned goo and made VrV da happy dumping them exactly how he showed me. And then you see things started to unfold. Everything till now was perfect. Alright agreed I hadnt chopped the onion so finely or that most of the jeera had been burnt by the time i saved their behinds with the onion but hey what the hell so far so good. Only problem was it wasnt really looking it.

Once I make up my mind, I tend to be in it for good. I dont know why I was thinking this in the middle of everything but it surely wasnt doing anything for my satiety centre. Well I think hunger being the basic instinct that it is got me thinking about other things and then it wasnt too hard to drift for a bit there before the jumping lid got me. Little Betty had too much steam building inside and the lid didnt have one of those little vents. So checking on my dinner, according to the international renowned Sanju(I baptised my chef, I dont think thats his name but he looks like a Sanju) I was ready to eat. Well definitely didnt look like it. 

See there wasnt the right consistency, the righ colour or even the right smell. When I cook, inexperienced as I am, I use all my senses to guide me. So you will see me peep, sniff, feel and taste all the time. I was talking about my food. And it seems now I feel convinced that I often do hear it right as well. But today none of these agreed. Well VrV beta now take a hike, Culti mar! This wasnt going to be my dinner. Not tonight and definitely not for the next two. Rule #434 in the Bachelor Handbook : If you take the pains to cook today, dont forget tomorrow. And the days after. 

I knew what I had to do. Some whipping cream will change it all. See I know thats what mom used to do. She would add some KDD thick cream into any of her culinary adventures to improve their consistency. Added to the taste as well, made them really rich. So in a hurry I fetched the carton of whipping cream I just bought, shook it up and opened the seal, held over the bubbling cauldron and tilted it. Pour, pour and pour. Damn!

See now thats another thing. In all the energy that a kitchen brings in, I forgot my amateur skill and go straight for it. That is, I rarely measure up anything. I just add as much as I feel I should. Thats it. And trust me, going by today that isnt very good. By the time I mixed in the cream, the rajma went from a cinnabar red to a light citrus. Not very heartening. And as if that werent enough it started to smell of cooking cream, you know that wierd unmarinated paneer smell. Shifting into damage control, I dumped some more tomato puree hoping to bring the colour back. The smell changed again. Damn!! So added some more subji masala. It did little. To the smell or the colour. If this were a cartoon, a little cloud over my head would show a bulb light up. 

Pataks Madras Curry paste. Another great product of modern day technology and market. So I scooped some of it mixed in some water and in it went. The colour had slightly improved now. It looked more like a kind of rajma I remembered eating at a dhaba once. So finally as I almost gave up, I went in for the kill. A taste didnt do too much. See my dad always did this, if you ever gave him something to taste, once wasnt going to enough. So go armed with half a bowl. The taste wasnt horrible but it surely wasnt what I was hoping for. It was initially bland, had a spicy aftertaste and then left you breathing like a dragon as it went down. I was missing something.

Salt. Now that is something that definitely increased the palatability of this mess I made. Still there was the dragon breath to be handled. I mean its one thing when it burns on the way out, but I honestly feel good food should never burn on the way in. So two big chunks of garlic butter it was going to be. Atleast all that butter would numb down the buds. Sadly there wasnt going to be much I could do for the behind, that fella was going to burn and I dont think I am ready to try two big chunks of garlic butter down there. 

Finally, it came to an agreeable odour, clour and consistency. And as for the taste. Well I have to tell you, before today I had my doubts but now I think we can make it official. I can work wonders in the kitchen. As all the ingredients settled down, everything fell right into place. Rajma it was. See I am one greedy, gluttunous SOB when it comes to food I like but I was so amazed myself that I dropped some of it off at a friends place upstairs before settling down to enjoy my work.

And as for the hallmark of a good cook. It all comes down to the presentation, even if it is for yourself. Eating begins with the Eyes.

Its not Over. Still!

Well here is an update for all those of you not reading, the climax over a pair of shoes runs on. The story rivalling many network saas-bahus is now nearing completion of its third month. But soon all the twists and turns will come to an end. I have decided to abruptly end the first and hopefully the only season. Today I will be going out to the Bay, probably as soon as it opens and will take one last look for a pair of decent shoes. If all else fails, Hush Puppies are going to save the day. Lets hope the $200 will turn out well spent. 

P.S.- Is it just me or are there no decent shoe companies other than timberland that make waterproof shoes on a regular basis? In Canada with all the snow and rain, I would expect a decent market for waterproof shoes of all kinds. By the way, to all those who didnt know and couldnt care less, here is another fact to flush. Canada has no Timberland stores. The closest one is in Buffalo, NY. Even Kuwait has Timberland. How wierd!?!

Avva Kavali Buvva Kavali!

(Have my pie and Eat it too!)

Sweat, rain, icy slush and maybe, some fungus? My shoes smell wonderful. I was sitting in the library the oher day, across from a quiet Chinese kid pracitising his ESL tests, cursing why my olfactory lobes were being assaulted. God! Someone tell this kid to clean up!!

Nike Air Max 360. Rs 10000. I bought them, umm, I dont know sometime back. I was in the Nike store with my mom getting impatient over my now famous indecisive rambling. I had been through tthe whole inventory all the while knowing that it was either the black shox or these 360s I was going to buy. After about an hour of fooling around, my mom got my game. She asked the sales guy who was fed up with this whole stupid son and patient mother scene that I bet he was hoping my mom wasnt there so that he could just throw my dignified rear out on the street. Anyway, my mom declared that she would buy me one of the two, the shox(which were the round about 9000) and the 360s. Now what was she trying to do? The whole time i spent looking was to avoid having to choose. And now my mom asks me to do what i hate the most. Choose? Are you kidding? Both My Father and my father have been very kind to me. But not so much as to entertain my idioticities. So I flipped a coin, shox won. I bought the 360s. Come on they were more expensive. Brag-worthy!

Choosing. Something I am not terribly good at. Growing up at home included lectures in Introduction to Economics, The Art of Spending and Cost-Benefit Analyses. Free! So I listened and as it happens in these cases, thanks or no thanks, I learnt something. And I think I made him proud. I have this tendency to look around so much that i surprise myself sometimes. Trust me thats not easy! Early years at surveying meant walking door to door, picking up brochures, flyers, quotes and what have you, with friday siestas lost to the post-prandial sugar surge to my cortex. Those were the days. (Mind you, being a middle/high schooler meant your surveys were for fun and what you said barely counted towards anything.)

Enter Internet. And once again I can go on about the boon/bane discussion. The internet has taken my surveys from the realm of fun to compulsion. Previously i knew only as much as the shopkeeper told me. Now the tables turned. I know more than any sales guy about the product I am going to buy. I often know already what I want and why, but the sadist in me often decides to humour the poor guy to make his pitch, offer off the record advice and persuade me. Come on, he's there for that, no one should get paid for free. Sometimes I play the ignoramus to start with asking the obvious while i slowly titrated my questions to his info levels. If he go cocky like he knew so much, Boom!! I'd take him down, lead him down the path of sales hell, cluster bomb him with all my research. Its not all fun though. Sometimes the game backfires. If I dont pick my lamb accurately I get slaughtered. It has happened more than once and it is not fun.

Anyway, so now with this whole internet thing, like so many other surveys, I have started to look for my shoes online. Surprising thing was that there were very few online stores that delivered in Canada. That hasnt stopped me though from looking for my perfect solemates. I think I have almost made up my mind on buying Timberlands. And somewhere along the line I have picked up this new fixation for waterproof shoes, which funnily are fewer and harder to find. No water resistant mind you, waterproof. There is a distinc difference. The other day made I fell for these King's Bay chukkas, goretex, waterproof, airport friendly. But just as I was about to punch those little credit card monies into the website, I found a liking for the new Earthkeepers line Timberland has launched sometime back. Suddenly I feel inclined to shell out for that boot style. Maybe its just the eco-friendly branding that seems to have taken hold of the save-planet-earth parts of my brain.

And so the forces win again. I like two different things. Budget dictates that I can have only one. I have to choose!

Yes We Can

Nov 8th , 2008

Watching Obama say these words gave me goose bumps. For the first time after a long time I actually cared about America and its people.  I don’t know when I forgot them. Must have been sometime through those eight forgettable years that have just gone by.

The earliest memory of America, though I have never been there, was the fateful night when I sat huddled in front of a TV set with a bunch of other Indian kids while the grownups watched from over their couches and dinner plates. The Iraqis on the streets couldn’t do enough to deter a resilient Indian soiree. Bush Sr was talking about the goings-on in the middle-east, the invasion of Kuwait. I still remember his wrinkled, meditative words heavily pouring out. War it was.

I am a child of the Gulf War. Americans were our heroes.  Play and chatter was abundant with the imagery of good-evil transferred to the America-Iraq scenario. America was the good guy. That was 1990.

Operation Desert Storm. Bosnia. Somalia. Kosovo.  Operation Desert Fox.  The ten years that followed were a series of conflicts relayed in a carefully reconstructed manner always readily identifying the bad guy. Of course we knew who the good guys were. Didn’t we? Growing up to these events brought on some questions. Yet one never doubted the intention. America meant no harm. They fought for the people, their rights and their good. Well there were other ways of doing it but no other would step up to the task so readily. That was America doing what it did best, playing the good guy.

Then came the new millennium and with it brought controversy, doubt and eventually, decay. Controversy over the how the man got into the office, doubt over his capability and judgment, and finally the decay of the American spirit and also the good will that America had fostered in minds like mine. George Walker Bush had done everything humanly possible to open the wrong doors, rub people the wrong way, all the while carrying a straight face of a man driven by vision and purpose.

9/11 forever changed the world we lived in. But Afghanistan and later Iraq were hasty responses to a blow on the very face of the American spirit. The need of the hour was determination, resilience and thoughtful intervention. What has come to be does not even qualify debate. Could it have been different? May be. Should it have been so bad? Definitely not. Four years ago, for reasons unknown, at least to many outside America, Bush was re-elected to the highest office in the most powerful country in the world. The second term of W is something I can’t wait to forget, and I am not alone. Bad policy is very different from ignorance. Persistent and worsening ignorance can only be judged as idiocy. God bless America became God save America.

As with all things, the Bush years have come to pass. Every American who voted Obama on the ballot represented the hopes of the entire world. People from every corner who directly or indirectly were beneficiaries or victims, as times have it, of American policy of recent years held their breath as America went to the polls. The world was glued to its TVs, radios and computers awaiting the outcomes of their suffering, the fruit of the hopes they had invested in the common citizen of the USA. And they weren’t let down.

The words of change the new president of America had on the eve of his victory were not for his people alone but for people world over. The man on stage in front of America today was not just a leader America voted for, he was chosen by all of us around the world who wanted to see the guiding light in new hands. Watching intently, I couldn’t help but smile to myself when I saw him speak with conviction and promise of restoring America to its lost glory.

Obama is not just a man or a leader or a president. He is an idea. An image of the power and will of the people, invested in one man. America has once again beat the odds and managed to make that leap of faith. Less than 50 years after Martin Luther King, they have elected as president a young, black man who has the tenacity to challenge, the will to persevere and courage to transform. He represents an opportunity for America to try something new, to show the world a new direction and to make possible tolerant and peaceful coexistence. It is a chance to abandon a rampant ruthless barbarism, both fundamental and state-sponsored, that is scarring the lives of millions of people and bring back an era of dialogue and non-violence. A man who does not carry the weight of years of electoral politics, who is not hardened by the unforgiving corridors of Washington and entrenched in the interests of the high and the mighty brings with him a sense of honesty to the table. This alone will give Obama what few other presidents have enjoyed, the respect and adulation of the peoples of the world and above all a chance, to break ice and foster brotherhood.

Economy. Trade. Healthcare. Foreign Policy. World Peace. Obama’s mandate, rather the legacy he stands to inherit, is unenviable to say the least. Yet even the longest journeys start with a small step. And with Obama, America has taken a giant leap. Four years on, I look forward to remembering these times as a period of great change when I stood witness as history unfolded and a new paradigm shift came to be in the way the people of America, the people of the world lived.

Mr. Barrack Hussein Obama, Yes we can.

Yes I'm Brahmin

stifling hot. deafening sounds of the road. a couple of feet away is the mahaveer jain clinic where i sit. wedenesday op. seems almost like a geriatrics department. 17 cases cleared. next.

female, 70, joint pains and backache. knee pains had worsened since the last visit.
i examine to see any possible signs of tenderness, effusion or injury around the knee. negative.

rx tab diclofenac, tab rantac, tab bc, tab calcium. the routine.

you are going to be fine amma, i say. take the tablets everyday and come back if the pains arent relieved.

with folded hands, thank you doctorgaru. and she hesistates to leave. turns to me.

you touched my leg, are you brahmin?

Recent Events

a pictorial of the recent events around here.


bowling. faking it.


sports day. i won zilch.

whatever.

yama for the college day.

my band. bad sam. mickey in green

the forgotten snazz in jazz. the bowtie boys. backstage.

Reflections

there is a lot going on right now. in my life. in the lives of those i know. in the world. it just surprises me how much things have changed over the past couple of years. i am sitting now in final year and i cant help but gawk at the speed of time. i am stickler for the past. i am an advocate of change yet i am the great resistance to it. to understand that something is absolutely essential and yet oppose it is quite a common oddity. anyway as it seems my times spent here have shaped me in several ways.  my life's being spent desiring something and yet getting something else. or maybe it is just my nature.  

recently i was watching an episode of scrubs and it amazed the qualities i share with jd, turk and perry. all three guys each reflect certain aspects of my life. cheesy as it is, i do understand the drawbacks of comparing my life with a sitcom. i wonder if anyone ever would take it seriously enough. but it is undeniable that these charaters are often a refection of what we are.

i was reading a friends blog today. it was very impressive. i realised that she had a couple of readers who were quite regular and every post had comments to it.  i found myself wondering if i had the capacity to write like that.  

another instance was when i read a conversation between two of my 
friends one of whom was going to london over the summer. yet again i relapsed into selfdoubt. i am quite a narcissist which may be quite apparent by the amount of text i use to understand myself. but for someone like me it has become a habit to try and understand myself than to actually make headway in some other sphere of thought. it is something i have to work on. maybe its time to realise that there are better things to do right now than try and understand oneself all the time.

anyway on other issues now. life is rockily smooth. i am headed for the toughest exams so far and i have to work doubly hard to sail through successfully. personal was is and will always be tumultous. atleast not open to discussion now. i need to go out there on a holiday soon.

I broke up with my computer#@$%

whats funny is that these days anywhere you go the computer is always right. i know i once used to laugh at those old timers who would complain about computers and how they couldnt stand the button pushing. i also would defend computers with almost religious fanaticism and pride. yet these little or not so little number crunching, graphics spewing excuses for technology have done more than enough to let me down. they have devoured my patience, robbed me of my dignity and caused a good amount of material harm. all while just sitting innocously on a crowded desk.

my angst is fuelled by the recent spate of mishaps wherein my former best friend(the computer) would delete some important piece of information putting me at the mercy of whoever cares. well for example it was my internet account, with the ignorant bastard from sify(isp) telling me that they would not entertain my claims as it conflicted with those of his computer. a couple of more heated exchanges and i had the honour of a call centre employee tell me that the computer was always right and disconnect the call. i mean i got dissed by a cc employee.

adding to the many more such misfortunes, i am now caught with facebook. my account was nonexistent, overnight. vaporised! the facebook helpdesk had only one thing to give me, a detailed guide to re-registering with them. sweet!

there is a conspiracy. someone's watching.

Times Gone By

time seems to have a greater significance in my life than i ever imagined. i realise that everything i had ever done is gone and that much of what i wanted to do still remains to be done. life is rolling past me. it seems that i have been left in a void.

i have a very old trouble in life but something i have discovered only recently. i dont know. those three words are on the verge of ruining my life. i have found that this was the most convenient answer i was giving to all questions sometimes even without thought.

this is my status. i am in the ninth semester of medical college with practically four months left to train and venture into the lions mouth, the final year exams. well some part of me says they may be slightly overrated but a greater portion agrees with popular opinion that this might be the toughest of periods i would be enduring in these five years.

i am listening to atif aslam's yakeen. the opening lines take their toll.

i have often had these subconscious images stuck in my head. i can never really identify them, but certain objects, images, words, circumstances bring them out. they are so strong that the emotion is often overwhelming.

reading the book 1984 by george orwell. the man was sheer genius or more appropriately a prophet. a modern day prophet, to have sat back so many decades ago and to have identified this path of decadence that we seem to have so boldly endeared. we are not yet there. but the time is not far away when total downfall will be the only recognizable pattern left to human existence. and that this existence shall be plagued by ignorant grim futures is not an impossible idea. anything contrary would actually be surprising.