KT 1: chilli

So friends, there is another blog out there. A "well tried" food blog is up on blogger to chronicle random stuffs that i cook, eat , like etc. you are welcome to check it http://thcosh.blogspot.in/  :)  (no post as of now, but you are welcome to check it later).

KT is basically Kakinada times: short posts every now and then about things that amuse me here.

So people in AP ( Andhra Pradesh) are known for their spicy food. After 4 months here, I have got a handle on it and now I'm pretty comfortable with it.We, two others of the same age group live in an apartment. I was the last to join the group and by then the system was already in place a maid would cook and clean and us, eat and whine. The trepidation I felt biting into the red cauliflower on the first day was not misplaced. My eyes watered and the mind played strains of violin, sad and ominous. I smiled. I cried.

In time though, it was ok, that is as long as I avoided biting on a chilli piece directly. This is probably what i would call the second phase of acclimatization: Play mine sweeper with food . I mastered the expert maze set by the indomitable beans in one month. 

We all get bored of our routine. All of us singing paeans about "mom's food" really did hate it at some point during our school days. So after mastering the mirchi, I decided the time was ripe to make my life miserable again and try my hand at cooking. Cooking, here, would mean preparing small dishes that compliment or add life to the existing meal prepared by her. (no, not adding salt and pepper). The plan was either cooking up a light breakfast say upma, rava dosa etc or a second subzi or a rasam in the afternoon etc.

So here I was, a fine Sunday morning, back from a walk, fresh, sunny etc. etc. The vegetables are bought by our maid, we don't have a refrigerator as of now, so she buys on a very day basis & we pay her monthly for those. I was still confident of finding the usual stock of "back up veg's"  or the essentials like onions , potatoes, tomatoes etc. . . so after some calisthenics in front of the range, I proceeded to check my inventory. 

No onions, oh my! no tomato too, ha!! 2 potatoes. good. what?? 3 handfulls of green chillis!! what.....

Hair

Venky on why he keeps going to the barber every quarter and how to make the barber earn every penny he gets.

In the 1900s lot of people have said great many things about hair. I will allow you to pick your favourite/inspiring quote from this list prepared by a reputed agency . You can also do a quick Google search and move to the 100th page first to get a better quote (people rarely go beyond page 3)

http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/tag/hair

Hair is everything your life is . Fickle, failing and unreliable. Hair , so strong today might just come off with your comb tomorrow and you wouldn't even feel the prick. In no time the coiffure adorning your head goes bald. Importantly, it reminds you that you are always a slave to time.

Haircuts for some are a prized escape from the mundane and for others it is a pilgrimage (Tirupathi, Pazhani). An hour’s wait at a barber’s shop may seem like an eternity while the ten minutes after that would pass away in a matter of seconds. You come out of the shop, a better person; well rounded, close cropped, smarter and with a reduced rate of hair fall. In time the drudgery of life depresses you once again and you decide to get a haircut. The Barber calls and I must go

On my first trip to the barber, I had prepared my exposition to the last detail, to get the hair done tastefully. The barber patiently heard me out, looked at my father (who nodded surreptitiously) and continued with what he had gleaned out of it; the nod, not my exposition. This episode taught me diligence. It instigated a deep determination to grow up, build stamina and to cultivate a deep voice before I had my say in such matters. I ate my mom’s food, oiled my hair, and had ‘oil baths’ and monthly haircuts while I grew. The frequent haircuts always induced ridicule during my early morning yawns (I looked really dumb with a huge yawn and close cropped hair) and was the butt of jokes among my mates. I suffered through this, steeling myself, growing up, Hair, body and soul.

The barbs used to tire me, but, I realized the secret to independence, say on your hairstyle always had an ungainly beginning. First they mock you then your hair grows. I learnt, perseverance, discipline, commitment and slowly cultivated the belief that one day I would sport long hair. I dug deep within my hair, and fought many lone battles.

You age, the hair does grow long enough and then it becomes a test of your endurance. You wake up daily, wash your hair daily, try different shampoos daily, and finally settle down with shikakai. A haircut after such a rigorous routine gives you the much needed peace, an escape if you may, from the daily. The head feels much lighter and your levity returns back slowly.

Sometimes, there are testing times after haircuts too and this is part of the adventure. I once had a haircut from a barber at St. Thomas mount (small hill) that was so bad that there was a sense of disbelief among my friends. I was distraught. I pulled myself and my hair to grow out of this phase. The resolve I had built over the years and a bit of ego helped me get through it. I grew my hair longer and made him work through his next haircut, earning every penny of the 30 bucks I gave him.

The brashness is sometimes misplaced and you need to strike a balance. Sometimes you need to embrace socially acceptable hair styles. You can’t overdo it and turn up like Bob Marley for an interview or on other occasions where you have turned up to impress lady friends. You really need to get your hair right as this may be the difference between life and death. I remember this interview, where I had to go under the scissors after just 15 days. I knew that once I got through, I could grow it back.

The most important thing a barber can teach you is the value of communication; both verbal and non verbal and how the scissors should always be sharp. A bad haircut not only tears your hair, but also your psyche and confidence, out of its roots. But with prior preparation, careful communication and a willingness to brave the odds, you come out of the shop as a smarter and more hospitable individual.

My hair is sufficiently long now and my barber is calling.

He messed up last time and I should find another, less appalling.

The worse the haircut the better the man, - john green (Ref: link at the start)

small pleasures...

“In the town where I was born, lived a man who sailed to sea... and he told us of his life, in the land of submarines...tanana tanananna tananan tanana... fe fe feeee  feeee fee fee feee” pauses for breath “... in the land of submarines”

“We all live in the yellow submarine yellow submarine yell....” the steps in line with the song; the hand twirling his lunch bag, the lad is making his way home. This song somehow, was stuck to his head right from lunch. Finding no one else in the vicinity, he sings with gay abandon, like he owns the road. “tan tan tan tan”. The bag comes to a stop. Without missing a step, in one fluid motion, with an expertise that comes out of practice, he crosses the road, lifting his hand up nonchalantly, stopping vehicles and stamping his right of way... and it takes just a beat before his trained eye finds a break in the traffic in the opposite direction. Done, just like that...

“What a warm evening” the bag starts twirling again; he’s lost in thought. “Need to ask ma for new shoes, this one’s almost dead, look at that guy walking... must get white leather... ok resin shoes, poor animals... these canvas shoes are so bad, they are not even shoes. Why do they make shoes from bag material? Mad people. The rubber toe guard sucks. And the two holes on the sides; what is the point? On top of all this, I have to wash this stupidity that is this shoe, every Sunday. What a bore. I’ll ask amma for new ones today” He pauses, pulls out a bottle from his bag, frowns at the water level and empties it. “There, 20 grams less. We all live in the... cha such a boring song... fee fee fee feeee“ shuts off his mind “useless”.

The boy walks 1 2 3 *lunch bag twirl* 1 2 3 *lunch bag twirl*. “finally... we are here..” he surveys the shoulder of the road, the walls of the foot path; blows the dirt away and carefully sits down, resting his chin on his palm. “Astra, Escort, Escort, Zen, 800, Esteem, 800, Contessa! Do these things still run? Icon, Icon, Lancer - such a nice car, Zen, Xing, Xing, Xing, Peugeot, man, how do they pronounce this?? Qualis... this is easy today, Uno, Sienna, Baleno. Wow!! What was that? A Merc? Bmw? BMW OMG!! I'm blessed... hmm what's that car? Skoda... Skoda.. oh ya! Octavia... oops! bus vannu (arrived), what number is this now?” He draws up a conclusion from his experience and the remnants of a board partly eaten, on the side.

His friends stay at a different part of the town, on the other side of the school.This leaves him alone, without company while returning home. The lad gets a place to sit if he plans his time right, which is starting half an hour after his school’s final bell. So, he makes it a point to chat/loiter around after school. The early birds would have left by then and the next wave of office commuters would start only at 5. This strategy wins him a window seat most of the time; a seat he values a lot. A seat behind the driver is even better. However, this time, He manages to capture the ultimate prize- the side seat across the driver,with a full undisturbed view of the road, facing sideways.

“Ha finally, some breeze...“  His mind shuts off for a few minutes enjoying the breeze; He smiles. The bus that leaves Malar hospital, Adyar, has to take the Thiru-vi-ka Bridge across the Adyar River to reach the other part of the town. “Appa will want me to cut my hair next, useless. He should see Adi, such long hair. What’s wrong with that?”Absentmindedly curls his hair. “Yay traffic jam!! Hey that was a Corsa swing... ooh and a Sienna weekend. I’ll tell Bala tomorrow, I saw both of them.I'm sure He wouldn't have. These are rare“

The traffic clears. The driver looks across, smiles under his moustache. The kid smiles back.

waaat iss yovaar name?

Venkat

Ethanavadhu padikkara? (Which grade?)

6^th

Veedu enga? (where’s your home?)

Mandaveli

Hmmm...

He converses with his eyes on the road stealing glances at the boy as he checks his side view mirror. The boy mimics him. Looking ahead, answering in the same tone, co-driving the bus with his will. The brake pedal is worn, so is the clutch, from one side. The driver shifts gears. “Ah, so this is why... why does he use his clutch carelessly? Shouldn't   his entire feet be on the pedal? The pedal would have worn out uniformly. This looks ugly. I would have maintained it well.”

A dull horn sounds, like a bored cow stretching out and yawning.”Hehe, what a stupid horn”. They had banned all the loud ones on the city buses. Some of the Periyars and Thiruvalluvars (inter city services) still had them. It’s a pity, really. The private buses had two of them. He had just returned from a trip - visiting temples in and around Kumbakonam. Obviously, this had resulted in a lot of travelling, "specially bus journeys.  He was shaken out of his wits the first time he heard them, the loud horns, but slowly, with repetition, it had caught his fancy. In fact, the creativity of certain drivers using those found him praying for slow moving trucks, carts or tractors. “These buses should have two horns... they can install a goats ‘meh’ and the driver can use it alternately, simultaneously or in quick succession... fun”.  Such possibilities, much creativity, so wow.  

The Tata buses had a distinct sound; or maybe the Ashok Leyland buses had a distinct sound, wait Eicher too... ok every engine had a distinct sound. He hated the Tata buses. He had a curious affection for old, run-down, DATC buses. The buses made much noise and did very little. But it promised value for money for the small distance he travelled.

Tickets tickets tickets

Pass, pass, pass

Kami, kami, kami (show me).. hmmm ok.

Ok, value for bus pass then. “Man! The time is almost 5;I should reach before cartoons start”.

He gets up, steps down the ladder and alights gracefully jogging to a stop while the bus rolls a few meters more. The setting sun starts casting a yellow ray or two as he walks away from it. He prays for a second as he crosses the roadside ‘Pullayar’(Ganesha), more out of practice than reverence.

“I want something to eat...” rummages through the bag maintaining his pace “pch, no money, I’ll ask amma for 5 bucks tomorrow”, slings it back carelessly. “I’ll buy one dairy milk”. He tames his hair, lets his shirt out with a sigh of relief. One hand inside his pocket and the other one holding the lunch bag’s strap, he becomes conscious of himself walking; stylish, no? He stops casually, takes a step back, twirls his bag and moves ahead his head bobbing to imaginary music, his mouth chewing on a nonexistent gum. A slow smile creeps across. “How I wish I had a toothpick now”   

“la la la la lalala lalala heeeey judee jude jude judy judy... wait a nimit, what was the other song? Hmmm lala... Hamm... yellow subjjmarine yellow submarine... wait how does it start? Yellow sub... hmmm...  ma open the door”

“va da (come in)... wash your hands and legs, eat the bowl of flakes ...  Ennada yosikara (what are you thinking about)?”

“Yellow submarine yellow... hmmm aaaargh screw it... onnum illa ma (nothing ma)... maa I’m watching duck tales, I’ll do my homework later.”

“Ok only this, not the next one” heading inside the kitchen ...“Don’t sit in front of TV till 6:30 like yesterday”

“OK OK... no”