On Lake Ontario

Now Playing: Muse - Map of the Problematique

These pictures were taken during a sunset cruise on Lake Ontario.

Watching the Watchers

Now Playing: Alizee - Moi... Lolita

These pictures - of people watching/waiting for the sunset - were all taken from a terrace in the cliff-top town of Oia on Santorini.

Waiting...

Pretty Colours...

Really Pretty Now...

I sense a theme here...

The Grand Finale

The List

I’ve realized that unless I make a list of things that need to be blogged, and then cross them off as I post, I’ll never cover all the things I want to talk about – which means that I will go on mentally composing snatches of posts that are subsequently forgotten.

So, sans further ado, I give you, THE LIST (categorized, natch!) –

Affairs, Current:

• Lebanon
• Pakistan-Hair fiasco

Books:

• A Country of Strangers – Blacks and Whites in America: David K Shipler
• From Beirut to Jerusalem: Thomas Friedman
• Life isn’t all haa haa hee hee: Meera Syal

Life, Mine:

• Ongoing Occurrences
• Pet Peeves
• Trip to Greece

Movies, Hindi:

• Bluffmaster
• Fanaa
• Rang de Basanti

Movies, English:

• Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest

Television:

• Battlestar Galactica
• Doctor Who
• House, MD
• Life on Mars
• Prison Break
• Veronica Mars

In Memoriam

Now Playing: Mozart – Benedictus

My paternal grandmother died last month, of complications resulting from angina. Amachi was 84, and had been mother to 12 children, and grandmother to 16. It was a quick death, in that she slipped into unconsciousness and thence into death – she would have hated a long, lingering illness, not least because it would have induced her to rely on someone else, something she would have hated fiercely.

Amachi was a remarkable woman – practical & tenacious to the point of stubbornness. She’d been ill on and off – diabetes, heart problems, glaucoma – as long as I can remember, and in early 1991 things had reached a head, with her doctor recommending a bypass operation. She refused, despite recommendations and exhortations from all sides. In particular, Velleappan, my uncle on my mother’s side, told her she should get it done. In a moment of high dudgeon, she replied that the doctor’s mother could get the operation, his dog could get the operation, but she would not. Ironically, Velleappan himself was dead within six months of a heart attack, while Amachi lived another fifteen years.

We were never able to communicate very well, as she only spoke Malayalam, and my Malayalam is terrible. In the two weeks we spent there every year, she did try and make sure I learnt something. I remember once responding to her calling me with “what?” in English, and she’d said, in Malayalam, “don’t say ‘what,’ say ‘endho’!” After that, I always did.

She loved watching Malayalam movies, with a passion. In the evening, after the work was done, she’d watch the evening movies on one of the Malayalam channels, and nothing could shift her from this routine. Before the movies started though, as dusk was drawing, every evening she’d cut up cucumbers and tomatoes to go into a salad, and we’d sit on the porch as she’d pass me bits to eat, and Safi, our dog, would nose around, hoping for some sort of treat before he’d give up and curl up next to us.

She was fiercely self-reliant, refusing invitations from her children to come live with them, preferring to remain in the house she and her husband had shared for more than fifty years. On the wall of their dining room was a picture my brother had drawn of them when he must have been seven or so – Chachen and Amachi in front of their house, with a well – and everytime we’d go, this would be pointed out to my brother, who was deeply embarrassed to have such a visible reminder of his lack of drawing skills displayed so.

Every year when we left, the ritual was the same – she’d take my hands in her cool, dry ones, and kiss me on the cheeks – and that is the last memory I have of her; a tiny bespectacled woman, hair in a bun, watching as we got into a Jeep to leave.

Amachi is survived by her husband, eight children and sixteen grandchildren.

Bombay Rhapsody

Now Playing: Mobile - Outta my head

You know some of what I am going to tell you – but not all, or that would be boring and obvious, and is there any sin more cardinal in a writer?

More than two weeks ago, seven bombs went off.

Khar, Bandra, Jogeshwari, Mahim, Matunga, Mira Road, Borivili - in the space of eleven minutes, seven bombs.

There was another bomb at Borivili - found and defused by policemen - forcing the architects of the carnage to content themselves with a nice prime number's worth of shrapnel and death.

When I heard - or rather read the news - my heart caught in my throat.

A small digression – an overactive imagination can completely spoil one's appreciation of certain metaphors. Heart in throat, heart in mouth – I know what these phrases are meant to invoke, but instead the dominant image is the ridiculous, macabre, obvious one – a heart, beating & muscular, tangled in the gristle and tubes of the human neck; or even worse, that same heart in someone's mouth, monstrous and disgusting.

Now that I've put you off your food, let's continue.

I was – let's dispense with the flowery language – worried. I have family in Bombay. My mother was born and brought up there, and two of her siblings still live there with their families, as do my grandparents. Many members of my family take the train to work or school. Given the timing of the blasts, it was entirely possible that they might have been on one of the doomed trains. It was only after I got the text message from my uncle telling me everything was alright, the entire pultun was safe and sound, that I realized that none of the stations targeted were on the rail route we travel by. I remember thinking - and my thoughts were treacly slow and obvious as my brain slowed down from impending-heart-attack mode – fear is so fucking irrational.

The thing is, though, I'm just not attached to Bombay because some of my family's there. No, for the longest time, Bombay was my hometown; my point of reference.

Waitaminute, you say. Aren't you malayalee?

Um, yes. Both my parents are malayalee, born to malayalee parents themselves the offspring of malayalees. My mum, however, was born in Bombay, and grew up there, a mumbaikar to the bone. She and her siblings spoke more marathi than malayalam at home - it allowed them to talk right under their parents' nose and not be understood - and to this day, whenever they get together they speak this patois of english, malayalam and hindi with sprinklings of marathi on the side. My parents were married in Bombay, my brother and I were born in Bombay, and had things gone a little differently, I'd probably still be there now.

You're thinking that birth and maternal attachment are tenuous links to an entire city –

and you would be right. I was pushed into loving Bombay; if not for that, it would be just another city where my relatives lived, with nothing else to bind me to it.

Ironic that the ones who pushed me to it were those who loudly professed their distaste for the city, no?

Children are rude, mean, thoughtless - and me and my peers were no different. It was only my malayalee classmates, though - when I told them I was malayalee, but my mother's family was settled in Bombay - who replied with, " Bombay? Chee! Bombay's so diiirty!" That cemented my attachment to Bombay like nothing else could have. How dared they insult my city? Clearly they were insulting half my family by association! Family loyalty - which I understood to mean that as bad as it was for me to call my brother names, for someone else to do so was beyond the pale - was one of the cardinal virtues of our family philosophy, and so my reply to them was to show my total disdain for their disdain and indentify even more completely with Bombay. After that, I was "from Bombay" - not, "from Kerala, but settled in Bombay", not "Bombay Malayalee" - but just from Bombay.

In the years since, I've come to realize that I can't escape being malayalee (translation - I can't outrun my relatives) and so I've made peace with the different aspects of my identity. But Bombay was and always will be special to me, though I know now it doesn't need me to defend it or protect it. It's strong enough to take the taunting of brats who've never stepped outside Sahar International, and it's strong enough to survive whatever the terroristes-du-jour decide to throw at it. Nevertheless - I feel I need to say something to the bastards behind the blasts: You're a bunch of fucks. I hope you die painful, horrible deaths and spend the rest of your cursed, god-forsaken existences in the most sisyphean of all hells.

Sorry, what were you saying?