Forget Not the Other Companions - repost

23rd Jan came and went by, and went by as usual, unnoticed by the majority of the populace. The day to remember a great hero, and all that we can do, as a nation, is a small 10 inch column in The Hindu and maybe a garland or two on a dusty statue.

A repost of a commentary I had written a year back - a repost to reflect the recurring neglect of a rightful hero
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And so did it come about that there was this mountain that they had to cross. There was no way around, no way to skirt the obstacle. So they began exploring possible ways of surmounting the mountain. “Let’s mine through it, after all what’s a mountain to a rat?”said one. “No, is there a better route than the aerial one? Let’s take to wings and prove that insurmountability is a matter of perspective” said the second. Countered the third “Say what you may but I prefer my legs – short though they are, over many a rough mile they have carried me.” And so they parted, each his own way, the destination being the same nonetheless. No doubts need be harboured, all of them homed onto their destination and met up at their favourite watering hole.
Ask me then, which was a better path? The rat bit its way through the underbelly of the earth – a lot of mud shifting and pain it involved, for the earth at least. The dog trudged along, burdening the hills and dales with his not inconsiderable weight. And as for the aerial companion, oh what a glorious flight; but what if the mountain was too tall? Rarified atmospheric conditions would have meant that the glorious flight ended in doom. So ask again, which was a better path? Or was there a better path? The rat couldn’t have flown, how much so ever he wanted to abjure from injury. The dog couldn’t have burrowed inspite of its best intentions and the bird would have to fly, no matter what.
The destination was the same – Independent India, each took to it as was in him – be it hurting the opponents underbelly, trudging over his mighty head or soaring high above. There were, and neither are, no comparatives amongst the paths taken; to claim one glorious and other ignominious is but a display of dull wit. “Different folks, Different strokes” I would say. Don’t mistake the metaphor; for rat, dog and bird are but examples and it is with greatest respect I take the names of our founding fathers. Yet why is it that Gandhiji is glorified, Nehru remembered and Subhas Chandra Bose is but consigned to a footnote in the memory of the nation? Refuse to believe this? How many of us honoured his memory on his birthday (23 Jan) with atleast a passing thought of gratitude? Of course, many of us would be hard pressed to explain the reason behind Dry Day on Oct 2nd; scarcity of alcohol due to increasing acceptance of drinking by the majority of our huge numbers would figure as the logical reason.
So what’s your take, you might ask? Why do you turn into an eternal didactic bore of maniacal proportions at the drop of a hat, you ask me. I have this to say, that maybe we are forgetting Bose because when, as Bomi Irani aptly put it in 3 Idiots “No one remembers who came the second” in today’s world, would we remember he who almost, but couldn’t make it?; that his was a fell choice, but choose he did, and against all odds strove to mine the roots of the earth to ensure that sun sets over the Empire; that we have to honour his memory; we cannot afford to turn a blind eye – if we forget our nation’s best sons, maybe our sons will find no reason to scale the peak of superlatives and we would be cursed with mediocrity, forever.
We don’t require another holiday; no we do not desire one. What we require is that his memory is held sacred, his ideals followed and his bravery emulated. We require that his dream is realized and he is talked about, for when darkness engulfed, he rode out in glory, stood tall in wrecked battlefields, all to keep his promises.

Time in The Sands

Egypt – a nation that has mistique long associated with it; a nation whose sands and pyramids, music and food, people and their erstwhile rulers have long captured the imagination of the cinematic industry; a nation that is steeped in history and yet has, on the surface, embraced modernity.

After a week in Egypt, some impressions have stuck on distinctly. Before musing on Egypt, a word on Emirates Airlines, the carrier that ferried me to my destination. Emirates Airlines is supposed to be the top of the class Gulf carrier and yet there was a distict difference in the service and seating of flight originating from Bangalore and that originating from Dubai. While the one from Bangalore had a cold staff with reeking attidude and below par seating, the one originating from Dubai was real pleasure to ride on. While I am not implying discrimination, I wonder what the airline intends to convey with such a distinctive treatment of its patrons.

Now to Egypt – a nation much similar to India but with many stark differences. The first one – well its about the food; if you are a vegetarian, beware, this country is as much aware of your dietery preferances as you are aware of the bacterium clostradium's, that is, they know next to nothing of what you mean by vegetarian. Obviously, a country in desert cannot be expected to have greens as the staple but you would be surprised at the lack of veggie options here. Veggie travellers, you have been warned. However, a big surprise lies in wait  everytime I purchase vegetables – they are cheaper than in India. Can you imagine that – a desert nation having fruits and vegetables at a price lesser than a fertile land? Something is amiss, I guess.

The attitude of the people never ceases to amaze me. These are a cheerful lot with loads of courtesy, this in spite of the lack of many a freedom that we take for granted back in India.

The traffic here puts to shame the worst managed Indian cities. The arterial roadways in the heart of the city are jammed for huge distances and some stretches of 2 – 3 km sometimes takes more than an hour. There is no need to go to any amusemet part for a hair raising ride, just get into any of the taxis and you would have more than your monies worth of "on the edge" rides. I have been in a taxi that alternated, in bursts, over 70 kmph and 20 kmph in crowded street corners. And despite the traffic, I have not seen any instance of road rage, people here are too decent and cheerful for that.

And language – any traveller to Egypt would have a grouse on the language front. With Arabic as the only language and even the little English being spoken having more than a hint of Arabic, miscommunication is a normal mode of communication. You encounter the true challenge when it comes to food. Communicating that you require only vegetarian food involves so much effort that you burn more calories than those you gain by having the food that is finally provided.

If you are of the superstious breed that believes in black cat being an omen of obstacles in your path, its better you don’t come to Egypt. The cats here own the street, and a good majority of them are black. I have a black cat studying me everyday as I set out to the office; thank heavens it seems to find no problems with my bearing and being. For all the stories about dogs being oppressors of cats, the cats here hold the sway, dogs are second rate citizens on the street.

Overall, my stay in Egypt has been pleasant; if only there were a few more option on the dining table, I would have rated the stay memorable.

Gastronomical Sojourn – The Learning Continues

I realize this is the first post of the New Year and it must be on a topic that is of interest to the world, one that world desperately needs in order to set itself in order. And for that very reason I would continue to discuss about my adventures with food; if only more of the warrior types became foodies, the world would rid itself of resource sapping wars. So here I start the brand new year with tales on my favourite topic – food.

Before I get on with my tedious tale, I think I ought to answer an unasked question in many of your minds – why the hell is this guy (i.e., me) boring us with his tale? The answer – well, if I don’t talk about myself, who will? I realize that I am no Gandhi, Nehru, Saddam or even the Empress of Blandings (pig though it may be, people, in particular one Mr. Wodehouse, wrote reams of literature about it) for eulogies to be written and odes to be sung. And I am talking about these because they formed some of my most embarrassing moments then but are now fond memories (I seem to have already reached the age of recounting memories instead of making them).

The responsibilities in the mess management during the UG days involved much more than setting a menu or baking a periodic cake, the responsibilities included ordering the required provisions from the vendors and also monitoring the items in and out of the mess stores – in one word, making the mess messier. It was the fag end of my 2^nd UG; exams were on, time scarce and study load huge. There was a practice at that time in the hostel (it must be there even now, I guess) of having dinners feasts in the week of exams – I think it was a way to reward the hardworking amongst us, only those few who had their noses to the books throughout the year would feel confident enough to enjoy the good meal.

Anyway, it was one such sundown and the menu for the night included batura (a deep fried preparation with maida). The cook approached requesting for 20 kg of maida and I hastened to the mess stores. I am not big on the regular study thing and I had loads of stuff that I hadn’t seen before; and chemistry being what it is, I never found the difference between what I read and what I didn’t, both seemed equally new. So I enter the store, hand the guy two 10 kg packs of maida and hasten back to the hated chemistry books. An hour later, a puzzled cook beckons me to the kitchen with trepidation. He silently hands me a piece of “batura”. First thing that hits me is that it feels more like a papad, and once I put it into my mouth – oh horror, its sweet as the sweetest cake.  Panicky, we head into the store and there we find a 10kg pack of maida standing gloriously in the centre of the room; I had mistaken a pack of icing sugar for maida and it was the icing sugar – 10 kg of it – that went into the preparation. Not that I am making excuses but how, in the name of all that’s edible, can one distinguish between icing sugar and maida.

Very briefly, we decided that sweet chapathis would be better than sweet baturas (atleast oil would be saved) and the nights’ menu underwent a slight modification. Suffice it to say that I was lucky we had exams looming and a long break after that, an hour of sour ear and sore hind side cannot but be called a lenient kindness from my friends.

Time went by and I learnt more lessons from burnt hands than sane councils, yet I avoided the “psyching up 300 guys” kind of lessons. It was not until the November of my 3^rd UG that the next major goof up came to be. November is the time when we, as students of Bhagwan, make and present a birthday cake to Him. Now, the birthday cake is a huge thing, both metaphorically and in reality, with the cake weighing close to a 100 kg and having a variety of aesthetic structures supporting it. The preparation goes on for close to 4 days with a set of 3-4 guys constantly hovering over the various aspects of the cake, the cake almost being a source of pride and symbolic of the passing out batch’s offering to their Master. It was time to bake “THAT CAKE” and three of us were in the bakery measuring out portions of stuff that goes into making of the cake. By this time, we had come a long way from the “stubborn cake that didn’t rise” and considered ourselves proficient in the art of baking.

After everything required was procured, measured and made ready, the process of putting together stuff in the right order started. Oil is one of the last things that enters the mix and it is a sort of balancing item, something that must be put to get the right consistency. Only God, in His omniscience, can know what went in my mind, but I lifted the can (from which oil had been previously measured out and set aside) and poured the entire content of the can in the mix. Now, you may well be aware that a standard oil can comes with 20 litres of oil and the cake required around 5 litres of oil; I had, in my excitement put in 15 litres (three times the required quantity) of oil in the mix. Not that I realized my mistake immediately, no sir, I was way too confident for that. We let the mix go round and round for about 45 minutes. After such a long spell of mixing, we were flummoxed to see oil still floating on top of the mix. Something was definitely wrong, we knew, but we weren’t able to pin point it even after much scratching of heads. The time was close to 1 AM and having no other option, we went and woke up one of our school professors, the same person who taught us to bake in our school days. Bleary eyed, he approached the mix and without batting an eyelid asked us “Do you realize how much oil you put?” Realization dawned and my friends couldn’t but help giving looks that could have frozen fire. The next hour saw the four of us, the teacher included, using ladles to extract oil from the mix. 10 litres of oil were put in a bowl and put aside, oil that acquired a sweet vanila flavour because of the thorough mixing done.

If, as they say, all is well that ends well, then the episode ended well too with a very tasty and visually appealing cake being presented to Swami on the 23^rd. A minor but mention worthy aside - the school kids had “sweet” puri the next day for breakfast, the cook inadvertently making puris using the oil that was put aside the previous day.

(The final part in the series with an indication of my current cooking acumen would come up shortly)