Stockholm Syndrome

I’ve gone to UK every year for the last 4 years, mostly on work. Its one of those countries which I welcome going to – mainly because of 2 aspects:
The whole of UK has an excellent network of public transport which makes getting around so much easier
And of course.. every one speaks English – albeit in un-understandable ascents (our ears are more accustomed to the various twangs of American English than actual English), but its English, nevertheless.

There is something about UK which makes you fall in love with it. The brash ugliness of London, the Punjabi and Pakistani cabbies who play pathetic 1980’s Bollywood music and seemingly enjoy it, the breathtaking country side, the polite elderly folk, the funky hair styles, the cockney ascents, the weird sense of humour, the option of having something veggie in every eating joint, the heritage sites, the museums, the art, the ambience, the atmosphere.. the essence of everything that is English.

They are aware of the very love – hate relationship that we have as Indians and English. They ruled over us for 250 years. They literally raped the country and did damage so irreparable that we are still struggling after nearly 6 decades of independence. But they are one of the main reasons for a lot of our successes – the railways were their gift, we pride ourselves at our English speaking capabilities and it’s because of them. UK has the 2nd largest diaspora of Indian community in the West, the other being in USA.

So, I guess we don’t hate them too much today even if our ancestors died to get them rid of our country. I am kind of confused now… this is not what I set out to write… but I need to go where the keyboard takes me…

If US or UK impose sanctions on India and Indians working in their countries of their work getting shipped off to India, aren’t they also fighting a similar kind of battle as we did half a century ago? Isn’t it their battle for survival as their people lose jobs to smarter, cheaper Indians? When we threw them out of the country even though they did some good things (amongst many bad things) why do we still expect them to accept us rendering them jobless and homeless, just because we provide cheaper alternatives to their natives. I guess it all finally comes down to Karma. We do unto them as they did unto us and someone else will do unto us.. till we weep… I just hope that doesn’t happen in my lifetime.

After that small digression, let’s get back to scenic Britain.

The country still has an aura around it. It still has a glamourous royal family, a palace and all that. We also have them in India, but they are called Oberoi Uday Vilas and a bunch of other 5 star hotel names. They have rolling grasslands…we have them too – just that you may find people defecating in the thickness of the grass. They have beautiful rivers… small ones, but oh so romantic. We have Ganga where we apparently can see corpses floating around. We have so much beauty in India, but so less of it is unpolluted. We would have to travel to remote areas of Leh, Laddakh, the Himalayas to see the majestic beauty of India. But in UK, its just strewn around.. all over the place, in the city centre, on the outskirts of the city, in villages, in remoteness and in population.

But the one thing that keeps Indians in UK, is simply the pace and quality of life. As told to me by my friends living there, its not that we miss India, its just that the things we would miss about UK are more essential to our lives. The quality of lives, the atmosphere in which children are brought up, the time that parents get to spend with children (thanks to flexi hours and a strict line between professional and personal life) – something so sorely missing in India within my generation and of course the money.

I would still not consider leaving India to settle else where, I consider such people traitors, but then, who am I but a common man… and my views really don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. Maybe a few years down the line, priorities change and I would settle in some far away land just because life is so much more convenient there....... maybe.

The Departed

The call came at 00:30. I cut it… who the hell calls at 12:30!! The phone rang again in a couple of seconds. Through blurry eyes I saw the caller ID – it was Mom.. what’s up.. why is she calling me now… something wrong with dad… no … if that were the case, mom wouldn’t be in a position to call me… so then what was it.. was it ammamma..all these thoughts running through my head in a matter of nanoseconds. I pick up the call and mom says “appotten marichu” (appottan is dead). That moment was like déjàvu. I had gone through something like this a couple of years back when lakshmiettathi passed away.

It’s a feeling of immense relief coupled with unimaginable sadness and an unrelenting emptiness that stretches ahead in life. Relief that that a soul who was suffering and who was the cause for others suffering was now gone putting an end to all misery. Sadness and emptiness because the soul was close to me.


Appottan is an uncle of my mother’s. He was a peculiar character. A very handsome man. That’s the first thing that struck you about him. In fact till I was old enough to be told by my mom, I actually believed he was British. He was fairer than most Malayalees, he only spoke English and I though he was very refined. He was not one of those old people that you could cuddle up to and get all grandfatherly with. At least not every one could, but somehow he and I shared a special relationship. Apparently, when I was small, I used to go to him (leaving all other people in the house) and ask for food when I was hungry. Legend goes that he actually used to be so concerned that he went about making every ones life hell till I got fed. Even as he grew old and I grew wise and I knew that not all was so great about this old man.. I always felt a weird kinship with him. I was the only one, I think who had the freedom to run my hands through his porcupine sharp crew cut silver mane. I think I was one of those very rare people with whom he exchanged pleasantries over the phone. I may not be exaggerating if I thought (maybe incorrectly) but I though so, nevertheless, that I was one of the few people in the world that he actually cared about.


I reached Mumbai that afternoon and saw his body in an icebox. A momentary binge of emotions, a few tears and then I was down to business. It was a house with a dead body. There was lots to do, places to clean, people to comfort, tea to be served, phones to be attended. I flung myself into all these tasks and the body lying in the front room was temporarily pushed to a secondary place.. it was not priority anymore… seems strange… but once a person is dead and if that person is not someone whom you saw everyday or spoke to everyday – then its very easy to get over their absence. It seems heartless, it seems cruel, but it’s the truth. It’s the people who are left behind and whom you have to face in future who become your immediate concern. How will they do, how will they manage, will they be all right….


All said and done, it was time for the final goodbyes. This is a moment when I wish I were a man… because they somehow seem to be genetically built to resist tears as far as possible. All of a sudden this realization dons on me that the white haired British demeanored gentleman, one of those few people on earth to love me, is gone and is never coming back. When I return to that home again, his seat on the couch will be empty.. even with someone else physically there… it will still be empty. He will not be there to tell me… see you next time.. call when you get time.. take care…
The tight inner circle of female relatives who pay last homage burst into tears. Everything is bearable but the sight of a grieving widow seeing her husband of 45 years for the last time…. It doesn’t matter how strong you are… it’s a sight you cannot take..


The body is taken away, the family is dragged away and in a few moments the body will turn to dust. It’s then, no matter how many deaths you have seen and how well insulated you think your heart is to such matters of emotion, it’s precisely at such moments you realize what a precious, beautiful bubble like quality life is…. You never know when the buddle bursts and all that’s left is a popping sound and then….. thin air.

I'm an untouchable!!

The subject of untouchability has been at the very heart of Indian “culture”. As a part of our great 5000 year old culture and tradition, we propagate, even in this time and age, a certain amount of untouchability. This is especially prevalent within the illiterate sections of the society where a person’s caste determines which well he drinks from, which temple he is allowed to enter and even where he is allowed to sit to see a movie. I guess 5000 years of tradition and culture is hard to be unshackled from.

I realized from an early age that I’m also a part of the untouchable society. I’m a woman. By that definition, I menstruate. And as per Hindu rituals, I am literally untouchable for the days when I have my periods. I’m not allowed to go to temples, take part in holy rituals. In fact even people who touch me are considered impure and hence not fit to do anything which involves Gods. In earlier days, this was stretched to the extreme where women were not allowed to enter the kitchen, have any contact with others, refrain from touching anybody. I guess, with the passage of time, the growing financial contribution of working women to the house hold and the grip of the nuclear family on the modern society; it became clear to the male dominated Indian society that to keep the women isolated will do them no good. If the women enjoyed in isolation, who would do all the slave labour.. Earn the money, cook, clean, keep the house in order. So the lowly woman was allowed to enter the kitchen and do everything around the house…. But she was still kept away from God and everything holy, lest she makes it impure.

I researched the subject a bit to see if Hindu scriptures actually mention something about the acceptance of such untouchability. I also wanted to know if it’s just Hindus or are all religions equally fanatic about such forms of female domination. I was sure that they were and right I was.
My first problem was laying my hands on the right source to search Hindu religion’s views on the subject. Being a staunch believer that Hinduism is not a religion, this was kind of difficult. Apparently the views regarding this have their origin in the scriptures by Manu. Considering the fact that this guy was of the opinion that women should not be educated or given any kind of freedom, it’s not difficult to imagine that he really would not be too opposed to the idea of declaring women as impure generally, especially when she is having her periods. Christianity apparently prohibits women from accepting the Holy Communion during menstruation, however not many practice it – most women are not even aware of this prohibition. Guru Nanak, apparently condemned declaration of women as impure during the “special days”. Even Islam, for a change, didn’t target women alone. It just considers all impurities be removed before prayers and that includes menstrual blood, semen and vomit.

I understand where the concept could have stemmed from. Maybe in the ancient days, there were no effective ways of keeping a woman clean during menses - they hadn’t discovered sanitary napkins and tampons then, I guess. So maybe a woman walking about would not leave the best trail. So it would have made sense to keep a woman isolated to a room so that she doesn’t cover the house and surroundings with her menstrual blood. Also I would like to assume that they she was forbidden from house work was because she was maybe considered weak due to blood loss and stomach cramps to actually be productive around the house. I rather like that theory. So maybe it all started innocently with good intentions.

But nothing ever stays the same over time. So the interpretation changed and then somewhere over the ages, women became impure. I so abhor the thought and concept. Imagine someone telling you that you are impure. Believe me it’s the most insulting scenario you can face. It’s worse than racism – I think. I have in many instances entered temples when I’ve had periods. Unless God has already ruled eternal damnation for me and he is waiting for the right time to unleash his forces on me, I don’t think either God or I have been negatively affected by me entering his abode. The worse thing I think is that women strongly believe this concept and they alienate themselves from religious ceremonies when they are in their cycles. I think if we insist on being backward in our thoughts, next we can start actively practicing child marriages, sati cremations and all those wonderful concepts of our 5000 year old culture and tradition.

A, B, C...Z and Some Extras...

There is a very famous piece of dialogue in Namak Halal (1982) starring AB, which is “I can talk English, I can walk English, I can laugh English because English is a very funny language”. I agree with AB on this one. English is indeed a very funny language. I’m not talking about the spoken language. That’s funny all right, but it’s a topic for another time. What interests me more after my travels around the worlds, is the use of English alphabets, or let’s say the Latin alphabets. India being a country which has such a wide variety languages and an equally tall order of scripts, we have never had to use the English language to express our linguistic thoughts. We would use English to type out our Hindi sms’s or to communicate our Regional movie names!! There is no other reason to use English alphabets other than when we are communicating in English. However, this is no so in other parts of the world.


In Netherlands, the official language is Dutch. They have all the alphabets of English (I think) and an extra one “ij” – pronounced “I” or a “Y’ makes you wonder the plight of the “j”. How redundant would it be feeling! So Rijwijk becomes Rywiek. By the way, the Dutch are crazy about their “ij’s”. They pronounce the “G” as “Kh”, so for example “Gratis” meaning free, becomes “Khratis”. And that’s not all, the “Kh” has come from the base of your throat – as if you are gathering all the phlegm you have been storing in your chest. They call “I’ as “E” – so Identity becomes Edentity. They also pronounce “V” as “F”, so you have Vincent Van Gogh which is pronounced Fincent Faan Khoh.


Then there is Poland and its obsession with “z”. In most cultures that I enter, I at least get the basics. This was one language which is beyond my comprehension. How can it be… every 2nd letter is “Z”. So I went to this place spelt Gorzyce and it was called Gorzhitca. I went to another place spelt Wroclaw and it was called Wratsvav. J is called “Y”. Apparently its just in English that J is called J as in Jack and Just and Jug. So Jaeck is called Yacek. There are a lot of other names which I don’t know how to write or read… so just leave it at that, that I will not be speaking Polish any time soon.


My latest fascination is with Spanish. And let me tell you, it is as funny a language as AB thought English was. One of those rare moments when AB measures upto me…..

Anyway “H” is normally silent, but is used abundantly. J is H, L is Y, Q is K and above all is “X”. I have never seen a language so much in love with the letter. They use it in the name of every city. But it is either silent or called H. So let me give you a few examples. Hugo is Ugo. Jorge is Horhe. Padillo is Padiyo and of course Mexico is Mehico, A son is called Hijo and is pronounced Eho and a daughter is called Hija and is pronounced Eha… Sounds like Indian war cries Eho… Eha…..And you can’t imagine the number of cities with X in them. Lets c Mexico city, Acamixtla, Acaxochitlan, Calixtlahuaca, Doxey, Panixtlahuaca…. The list goes on. I think Mexico is the country with the largest number of cities starting with X……

Waiting for more cities and more languages……..will update you….

Little Venice

I never really did think too much about travelogues. Who would anyway be interested in reading some strangers’ tour of a strange country? If there were pictures to look at … now that’s a different story. So it’s with extremely realistic views of the diminutive readership of the following account, that I begin my blog.



I was in Venezuela for a week on work. It’s at times like this that I love my work. How else do you think I would have ever got to see an exotic country like Venezuela?
Anyway it was one of the most interesting trips I have made abroad. The country totally belied my expectations. I thought it would be a typical banana republic – blacks, civil wars, unsafe streets and all.

I was pleasantly surprised. It is a country endowed with a lot of natural resources and people who have the capabilities to exploit the resources for the development of the country. It reminded me so much of India.

The country is warm (not just the temperature); the people are warm and friendly. They make you feel at home, even if you cannot mutually understand a word of what the other person is saying. I had a Spanish tour guide and between us we had, say, 10 words that we could understand, but we did well. He took me to a lot of beautiful places and tried in his own way to make my experience unforgettable. He knew that I had an early morning flight and he offered me a couple of fruits from the bunch he was taking home for his daughter, so that I wouldn’t have to get on my flight on an empty stomach.
Venezuela has a great mixture of different cultures – Indians (Red), Spanish, Arabs, Japanese, Asians, Americans. It’s a country that is so inclusive..... It allows you to lead your own life. It takes whatever is good from you and makes it a part of its lifeline. You could never feel unwelcome in Venezuela.

The country has a fairly developed infrastructure. Good roads, decent public transport system, the tallest building in Latin America, Parque Central, the biggest and busiest shopping districts in Latin America – mainly known for its eateries – one can find food from all over the world on this street is in Caracas – Las Mercedes.

There are many things atypical of Venezuela. For one, I wouldn’t be caught dead driving in Venezuela – not because it is dangerous. Simply because except for 2-3 main highways, the city of Caracas is riddled with many small streets- very much like gallies in Mumbai. It would take some one with an excellent directional sense, like yours truly, a lifeltime to figure out how to get from place A to place B. My gracious host ensured that he took me through a different route every day from my hotel to the office, just so that I could see more of the city. I didn’t even try to figure out the route.
Another thing which reminds me of home is the weather. Just like in Bangalore, the skies are forever cloudy. Even if it rains, it’s just for a few moments and then the sun is there – bright and shining.
My biggest fear when I travel outside of India is the food factor. I am an eggetarian. So normally on trips to Latin American countries, I tend to lose weight due to – well – starvation. But Venezuela was a whole new experience. I ate traditional Venezuelan Arepas and Chapakas, I devoured yummy Lebanese food, I had a very aesthetically presented sandwich, I ate my filling of eggplant lasagna…. I’m sure if I had stayed longer, I would have had the fortune of eating at least 4-5 different cusines. That is the variety that makes Venezuela wonderful.

Caracas is a happening place, but it is something to be experienced rather than seen or photographed. So my host decided a couple of must see places near Caracas and arranged for me to be taken to these.
Imagine having a taste of Europe in South America. That’s what Colonia Tovar was. A colony set up by Germans in 1840, it is an idyllic tourist spot – has the freshest strawberries and hence the most delicious strawberry and cream that I have ever tasted. However to get to Colonia Tovar you have to go through a couple of pretty run down areas on the outskirts of Caracas. The two worlds that you see in the span of an hour are so much of a contradiction, that you wouldn’t believe that you are in the same country, much less the same city.

And then there is the magnificence called El Avila. Caracas is a valley and Aliva is the imposing guard that holds vigil on the city. There is a ropeway which takes you to the top of El Avila. On a clear day you can see expanse of the Caribbean sea on one side and the whole city of Caracas spread out on the other. I was not lucky enough so see this. But the journey to the top of El Avila was like a journey on the clouds.. literally. It was still a breathtaking site when one moment you could see hotel Humboldt getting covered in clouds and the next moment it is totally engulfed – its as if it were never there. The hot chocolate that you get up there is lip smacking (they actually make it in front of you – not from a machine and Venezuela is famous for its Chocolates).

But one of your more long lasting memories of Venezuela would not be a pleasant one. The government of the country has imposed a forex restriction which is cause for a thriving parallel market where you can get a much better rate for Dollars as compared to the official rates. The market is very much like the Indian stock Market – some idiot sitting in the capital says something and the market falls or rises on sentiment. Then there are talks of efforts which are underway to make the country a socialist economy. For a country like Venezuela which is so diverse and so free this would be like a death knell. For the sake of the treasure that Venezuela is for the world, I hope to God that this doesn’t happen.

All in all Venezuela is a delightful smorgasbord of experiences that will leave you gasping for more!!

The Miracle

“You are most welcome Ma’m” These words pleasantly surprised me. Because they didn’t come from a customer service executive of my cell provider or my bank or some one trying to sell me something useless, they came from an auto driver – and that too in Bangalore. Bangalore – a city where I have had not many occasions to be pleasantly surprised. I am eternally at war with the city’s auto drivers. They don’t come from Bangalore Central to Ulsoor because its too close They don’t come from Bangalore Central to Banaswadi because its too far. They want Rs.20 on the meter for a normal distance that they do graciously agree to ply on. They ask for one and a half times or if they are really in the mood of a prying hyena, twice the meter fare. On top of all the cash they ask extra, they then jack up the meter. So a fare which should cost you say 50 bucks, turns out to be 80 on the meter and you pay double of that … so go figure, why I love them so much!!
Anyway, that fateful day, I was wearing my new paid of shoes and they were killing me. I didn’t think I could do my regular hike up to Shivaji Nagar bus stop. So I steeled up for a fight with one of the many auto drivers who laze in front of my office building. Most days the word Banaswadi affects auto drivers like the black plague or something. They violently shake their heads and then lose their senses – go around making crazy demands like “150 hota ma…” a bangalorean’s way of telling you that the fare would be Rs.150/- (if that’s not crazy talk, I don’t know what is). I decide to start from the last guy and work my way to the head of the line. But lo behold!!!!! The guy actually smiles and says OK. So I get in and give him the location. He then does something which is even more unbelievable. He asks me if he can take me through Ulsoor, Cox town as Kamraj Road is kind of clogged with traffic and signals… I say ok… the trip is going pretty much smoothly. I keep looking at the meter to see if it’s jacked and there is no indication of that. Finally “me casa” arrives. The meter is on the dot what it should be Rs.58/-. I pay him Rs.60/-, thank him as I thank all my auto drivers – even the ones that don’t deserve it and start leaving and that’s when he says the magical words – “you are most welcome Ma’m” and gives me back Rs.2/-.
I guess miracles do happen!!

The Dirty Window

I love the dirty window
Encased in unspeakable grime
Giving you a blurred view of the world outside
Giving you a false hope, that’s its just the window which is dirty
And not the world seen through it

I love the dirty window
Silent witness to a multifold of events
Letting you see just enough through a speck of cleanliness
Giving you a false hope, that’s its just the window which is dirty
And not your view of the world

I love the dirty window
A mirror of our souls
Viewing the world with biases galore
Giving you a false hope, that’s its just the window which is dirty
And not your soul!!